eer) 
or 
: 


° 
. ot 
a 


Sn es 
SS oa 


== 
— 
ye 


as 


“eS 


aa ae 


total 
Boe 


if 
ae 


erate 
Rae ahs 


ae ee 


ne te 


= 


Pn Mn 
fae 


te 


= 


sabes 


meaty 
rey nay 


BF a 
iy Cina, 
Lives 


a 


- 
a 


Lh ue 
ate Dia ay 
a ie 
Reed 
aH 
Mat en 


a 
ee Cite 
eee ey 


ee 


a | 


ee: 
oe 


_ s 


ee 
ae 


a 


cee 


a 
eo 
= 


oe ae 
eee 


ee 
Ge. 
o. 


oe 
ces 


is 


as 


bit We il 


DEAT Et ETRE BESTE 


UZ 


essou™ 
e 
e 


CLOVERNOOK 


OR 
RECOLLECTIONS 
OF 


QUR.NEIGHBORHOOD IN THE WEST. 


BY 


ALICE CARRY. 


REDFIELD, 
CLINTON HALL, NEW YORK. 
1852. 


Fourth Editicn, 


_ 


as 
GQ.) ? 
oY 
(*A20 
vit 


Enrerep, according to Act of Congress, 
in the year e Thousand Eight Hundred and Fifty-one 


By J. S. REDFIELD, 


in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United 
States, for the Southern District of New York. 


A. CUNNINGHAM, 
STEREOTYPER, 
183 William-street. 


. e ee On8 @ © 

* Oe e @ @ 8&8 @e © * 

ee ° ._ “e.@ 8 Oe 2. 

ae oe 6 868 6 © 

€ e a. 6 ee e ee 
€ o 2 © .4e Cee eS ted ° ° © 

ec € © ee é Po ed e 2 e sé 2» ¢ 
cca € OO e Oe SO Ee 6 oe € 6 be 
© ave fee 8 6° e 7 e oe €¢¢ e 
« < € € * € e we" e @eee ®? ceo 


TO 


Hatus Willmat Grisualt, 


WHO SENT TO ME WHILE WE WERE STRANGERS 
THE FIRST PRAISE THAT CHEERED ME IN THE PURSUITS OF LITERATURE, 
AND WHOSE GENEROUS ENCOURAGEMENT 
OF THE YOUNGER WRITERS OF HIS COUNTRY 
HAS BEEN ReeNOwinneEs 
IN MANY A GRATEFUL INSCRIPTION OF WORTHIER WORKS, 
I RESPECTFULLY DEDICATK THESE PAGES. 


ALICE CAREY. 


MAig0SeL 


PREFACE. 


THE pastoral life of our country has not been a 
favorite subject of illustration by painters, poets, or 
writers of romance. Perhaps it has been regarded as 
wanting in the elements of beauty; perhaps it has 
been thought too passionless and even; or it may 
have been deemed too immediate and familiar. I have 
had little opportunity for its observation in the eastern 
and northern states, and in the south there is no such 
life, and. in the far west where pioneers are still busy 
_ with felling the opposing trees, it is not yet time for 
the reed’s music; but in the interior of my native 
state, which was a wilderness when first my father 
went to it, and is now crowned with a dense and 
prosperous population, there is surely as much in the 
simple manners, and the little histories every day 
revealed, to interest us in humanity, as there can be 
in those old empires where the press of tyrannous 


vi PREFACE. 


laws and the deadening influence of hereditary acqui- 
escence necessarily destroy the best life of society. 

Without a thought of making a book, I began to 
recall some shadows and sunbeams that fell about me 
as I came up to womanhood, incidents for the most 
part of so little apparent moment or significance that 
they who live in what is called the world would 
scarcely have marked them had they been detained 
with me while they were passing, and before I was 
aware, the record of my memories grew to all I now 
have printed. 


Looking over the proof sheets, as from day to day 
they have come from my publisher, the thought has 
frequently been suggested that such experiences as I 
have endeavored to describe will fail to interest the 
inhabitants of cities, where, however much there may 
be of pity there is surely little of sympathy for the 
poor and humble, and perhaps still less of faith in 
their capacity for those finer feelings which are too 
often deemed the blossoms of a high and fashionable 
culture. The masters of literature who at any time 
have attempted the exhibition of rural life, have, with 
few exceptions, known scarcely anything of it from 
participation, and however brilliant may have been 
their pictures, therefore, they have seldom been true. 
Perhaps in their extravagance has been their greatest 
charm. For myself, I confess I have no invention, 


and I am altogether too poor an artist to dream of 


PREFACE. vit 


any success which may not be won by the simplest 
fidelity. I believe that for these sketches I may chal- 
lenge of competent witnesses at least this testimony, 
that the circumstances have a natural and probable air 
which should induce their reception as honest relations 
unless there is conclusive evidence against them. Hay- 
ing this merit, they may perhaps interest if they do 
not instruct readers who have regarded the farming 
class as essentially different and inferior, and entitled 
only to that peculiar praise they are accustomed to 
receive in the resolutions of political conventions. 


Soe 
Sigh aase 
a Pia te 
-. ee Wx 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
PAOOO ee ne ene eee agen v 
pty Grandfather 90 i 6 18 
Light and Shade eee a ee ee Pee We te ee | 
The Strange Lady ee ee ar re 84 
The Pride of Sarah Ny OFERING LOM oS ree os 39 
The Wildermings . ° ‘ es ° ° ° ° 48 
The Moods of Seth Milford .  , ee Pers eee 57 
Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Troost . . ° ak ae 69 
A Relic of the Ancient Days . .  ,, ene ee ry’ 
How Uncle Dale was Troubled , ee ee 83 
The Old Man’s Wooing ee ae a ee 88 
Deacon Whitfield’s Folks , ° . ° ° ° ° ° 93 


About the Tompkinses . , , he ee eee? |i, oe 
Annie Heaton : . ° ° ° ° ° ae : 117 
Peter Harris, ~ F - ° e e ° ; : « 188 
mamarct Welds. 2 ee 147 
The Phantom Hunter ‘ ° ° ° . ° : - 164 


Lydia Heath at the Sumner? .  , i, Aah e Mae 172 
The Claverels . ° ear ° 04 LOG 
The Student : , . COS et lg hig) ee 198 
The Sheep and the Dogs Se Be eg oe 
The Foolish Marriage . : ‘ ° ° ° ° ° . 216 
The Young Doctor’s Way in the World Spe ee ee 
Conirasted Visitors =. Ue; Mie ee, 234 


4* 


x CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
A New Start e e e e e e es e e oo es 243 
The Schoolmistress : ; : e e e e ° : 253 


The Spring and the Sugar Camp . «© +6 «e© «© «¢ - 261 
Sie Mad of the Uipiaired «<8 ss 265 
The Sisters a ee 
The Remorse of William Martin, .« ¢« © ce «© 278 
Mow Grayu two Vue 66 ke et 


A Rainy Day ° e e e ® . e e e e 801 
Wha iranpe Garret. 6 5 es ee OD 
Mrs. Parks’s Party * e © * ° e e ° e 319 


A Winter’s Changes . Pe ea e oe es | ae 
The End of the History ° e ° « ° 837 


RECOLLECTIONS 


OF 


OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IN THE WEST. 


RECOLLECTIONS 


OF 


OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IN THE WEST. 


MY GRANDFATHER. 


CuancE is the order of nature; the old makes way for the 
new ; over the perished growth of the last year brighten the blos- 
soms of this. What changes are to be counted, even in a little 
noiseless life like mine! How many graves have grown green; 
how many locks have grown gray; how many, lately young, 
and strong in hope and courage, are faltering and fainting ; how 
many hands that reached eagerly for the roses are drawn back 
bleeding and full of thorns; and, saddest of all, how many 
hearts are broken! I remember when I had no sad memory, 
when I first made room in my bosom for the consciousness of 
death. How—like striking out from a wilderness of dew-wet 
blossoms where the shimmer of the light is lovely as the wings 
of a thousand bees, into an open plain where the clear day 
strips things to their natural truth—we go from young visions 
to the realities of life! 

I remember the twilight, as though it were yesterday—gray, 
and dim, and cold, for it was late in October, when the shadow 
first came over my heart, that no subsequent sunshine has ever 
swept entirely away. From the window of our cottage home 
streamed a column of light, in which I sat stringing the red 
berries of the brier-rose. 


cae SSS SOUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Thad heard of death, but regarded it only with that vague 
apprehension which I felt for the demons and witches that 
gather poison herbs under the new moon, in fairy forests, or 
strangle harmless travellers with wands of the willow, or with 
vines of the wild grape or ivy. I did not much like to think 
about them, and yet I felt safe from their influence. 

There might be people, somewhere, that would die some 
time; I didn’t know, but it would not be myself, or any one I 
knew. They were so well and so strong, so full of joyous 
hopes, how could their feet falter, and their eyes grow dim, 
and their fainting hands lay away their work, and fold them- 
selves together! No, no—it was not a thing to be believed. | 

Drifts of sunshine from that season of blissful ignorance often 
come back, as lightly 


As the winds of the May-time flow, 
And lift up the shadows brightly 
As the daffodil lifts the snow— 


the shadows that have gathered with the years! It is pleasant 
to have them thus swept off—to find myself a child again—the 
crown of pale pain and sorrow that presses heavily now, unfelt, 
and the graves that lie lonesomely along my way, covered up 
with flowers—to feel my mother’s dark locks falling on my 
cheek, as she teaches me the lesson or the prayer—to see my 
father, now a sorrowful old man whose hair has thinned and 
whitened almost to the limit of three score years and ten, fresh 
and vigorous, strong for the race—and to see myself a little 
child, happy with a new hat and a pink ribbon, or even with the 
string of brier-buds that I called coral. Now I tie it about my 
neck, and now around my forehead, and now twist it among 
_ my hair, as I have somewhere read great ladies do their pearls. 
The winds are blowing the last yellow leaves from the cherry 
tree—I know not why, but it makes me sad. I draw closer to 
the light of the window, and slyly peep within : all is quiet and 
cheerful ; the logs on the hearth are ablaze ; my father is mend- 
ing a bridle-rein, which “Traveller,” the favorite riding horse, . 
snapt in two yesterday, when frightened at the elephant that 
(covered with a great white cloth) went by to be exhibited at 


MY GRANDFATHER. . 18 


the coming show,—my mother is hemming a ruffle, perhaps for 
me to wear to school next quarter—my brother is reading ina 
newspaper, I know not what, but I see, on one side, the picture 
of a bear: let me listen—and flattening my cheek against the 
pane, I catch his words distinctly, for he reads loud and very 
clearly—it is an improbable story of a wild man who has re- 
cently been discovered in the woods of some far-away island— 
he seems to have been there a long time, for his nails are grown 
like claws, and his hair, in rough and matted strings, hangs to his 
knees; he makes a noise like something between the howl of a 
beast and a human cry, and, when pursued, runs with a nimble- 
ness and swiftness that baffle the pursuers, though mounted on 
the fleetest of steeds, urged through brake and bush to their 
utmost speed. When first seen, he was sitting on the ground 
and cracking nuts with his teeth; his arms are corded with 
sinews that make it probable his strength is sufficient to strangle 
a dozen men; and yet on seeing human beings, he runs into the 
thick woods, lifting such a hideous scream, the while, as make 
his discoverers clasp their hands to their ears. It is suggested 
that this is not a solitary individual, become wild by isolation, 
but that a race exists, many of which are perhaps larger and of 
more terrible aspects; but whether they have any intelligible 
language, and whether they live in caverns of rocks or in trunks 
of hollow trees, remains for discovery by some future and more 
daring explorers. 

My brother puts down the paper and looks at the picture of 
the bear. “I would not read such foolish stories,” says my 
father, as he holds the bridle up to the light, to see that it is 
neatly mended; my mother breaks the thread which gathers 
the ruffle; she is gentle and loving, and does not like to hear 
even implied reproof, but she says nothing; little Harry, who 
is playing on the floor, upsets his block-house, and my father, 
clapping his hands together, exclaims, “ This is the house that 
Jack built!” and adds, patting Harry on the head, “ Where is 
my little boy? this is not he, this is a little carpenter; you 
must make your houses stronger, little carpenter!” But Harry 
insists that he is the veritable little Harry, and no carpenter, 
and hides his tearful eyes in the lap of my mother, who assures 


16 . OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


him that he is her own little boy, and soothes his childish grief 
by buttoning on his neck the ruffle she has just completed; and 
off he scampers again, building a new house, the roof of which 
he makes very steep, ahd calls it grandfather’s house, at which 
all laugh heartily. 

While listening to the story of the wild man I am half afraid, 
but now, as the joyous laughter rings out, I am ashamed of my 
fears, and skipping forth, I sit down on a green ridge which cuts 
the door-yard diagonally, and where, I am told, there was once 
a fence. Did the rose-bushes and lilacs and flags that are in 
the garden, ever grow here? I think—no, it must have been a 
long while ago, if indeed the fence were ever here, for I can’t 
conceive the possibility of such change, and then I fall to 
arranging my string of brier-buds into letters that will spell 
some name, now my own, and now that of some one Ilove. A 
dull strip of cloud, from which the hues of pink and red and 
gold have but lately faded out, hangs low in the west; below 
is a long reach of withering woods—the gray sprays of the 
beech clinging thickly still, and the gorgeous maples shooting 
up here and there like sparks of fire among the darkly magnifi- 
cent oaks and silvery columned sycamores—the gray and mur- 
murous twilight gives way to darker shadows and a deeper 
hush. 

I hear, far away, the beating of quick hoof-strokes on the 
pavement; the horseman, I think to myself, is just coming 
down the hill through the thick woods beyond the bridge. I 
listen close, and presently a hollow rumbling sound indicates 
that I was right; and now I hear the strokes more faintly—he 
is climbing the hill that slopes directly away from me; but 
now again I hear distinctly—he has almost reached the hollow 
below me—the hollow that in summer is starry with dandelions 
and now is full of brown nettles and withered weeds—he will 
presently have passed—where can he be going, and what is his 
errand? I will rise up and watch. The cloud passes from the 
face of the moon, and the light streams full and broad on the 
horseman—he tightens his rein, and looks eagerly toward the 
house—surely I know him, the long red curls, streaming down 
his neck, and the straw hat, are not to be mistaken—it is 


MY GRANDFATHER. 14 


Oliver Hillhouse, the miller, whom my grandfather, who lives 
in the steep-roofed house, has employed three years—longer 
than Ican remember! He calls to me, and I laughingly bound 
forward, with an exclamation of delight, and put my arms 
about the slender neck of his horse, that is champing the bit 
and pawing the pavement, and I say, “Why do you not 
come in ?” 

He smiles, but there is something ominous in his smile, as 
he hands me a folded paper, saying, “Give this to your 
mother ;” and, gathering up his reins, he rides hurriedly for- 
ward. In a moment I am in the house, for my errand, “ Here, 
mother, is a paper which Oliver Hillhouse gave me for you.” 
Her hand trembles as she receives it, and waiting timidly near, 
I watch her as she reads; the tears come, and without speaking 
a word she hands it to my father. 

That night there came upon my soul the shadow of an awful 
fear ; sorrowful moans and plaints disturbed my dreams that 
have never since been wholly forgot. How cold and spectral- 
like the moonlight streamed across my pillow; how dismal the 
chirping of the cricket in the hearth; and how more than dis- 
mal the winds among the naked boughs that creaked against 
my window. For the first time in my life I could not sleep, 
and I longed for the light of the morning. At last it came, 
whitening up the East, and the stars faded away, and there 
came a flush of crimson and purple fire, which was presently 
pushed aside by the golden disk of the sun. Daylight without, 
but within there was thick darkness still. 

I kept close about my mother, for in her presence I felt a | 
shelter and protection that I found no where else, 

“ Be a good girl till I come back,” she said, stooping and 
kissing my forehead ; “ mother is going away to-day, your poor 
grandfather is very sick.” 

“Let me go too,” I said, clinging close to her hand. We 
were soon ready ; little Harry pouted his lips and reached out 
his hands, and my father gave him his pocket-knife to play 
with; and the wind blowing the yellow curls over his eyes and 
forehead, he stood on the porch looking eagerly while my 
mother turned to see him again and again. We had before us 


18 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


a walk of perhaps two miles—northwardly along the turnpike 
nearly a mile, next, striking into a grass-grown road that 
crossed it, in an easternly direction nearly another mile, and 
then turning northwardly again, a narrow lane bordered on 
each side by old and decaying cherry-trees, led us to the house, 
ancient fashioned, with high steep gables, narrow windows, and 
low, heavy chimneys of stone. In the rear was an old mill, 
with a plank sloping from the door-sill to the ground, by way 
of step, and a square open window in the gable, through which, 
with ropes and pulleys, the grain was drawn up. 

This mill was an especial object of terror to me, and it was 
only when my aunt Carry led me by the hand, and the cheerful 
smile of Oliver Hillhouse lighted up the dusky interior, that I 
could be persuaded to enter it. In truth it was a lonesome 
sort of place, with dark lofts and curious binns, and ladders 
leading from place to place; and there were cats creeping 
stealthily along the beams in wait for mice or swallows, if, as 
sometimes happened, the clay nest should be loosened from the 
rafter, and the whole tumble ruinously down. I used to wonder 
that aunt Carry was not afraid in the old place, with its eternal 
rumble, and its great dusty wheel moving slowly round and 
round, beneath the steady tread of the two sober horses that 
never gained a hair’s breadth for their pains; but on the con- 
trary, she seemed to like the mill, and never failed to show me 
through all its intricacies, on my visits. I have unravelled the 
mystery now, or rather, from the recollections I still retain, 
have apprehended what must have been clear to older eyes at 
the time. 

A forest of oak and walnut stretched along this extremity of 
the farm, and on either side of the improvements (as the house 
and barn and mill were called) shot out two dark forks, com- 
pletely cutting off the view, save toward the unfrequented road 
to the south, which was traversed mostly by persons coming to 
the mill, for my grandfather made the flour for all the neigh- 
borhood round about, besides making corn-meal for Johnny- 
cakes, and “chops” for the cows. 

He was an old man now, with a tall, athletic frame, slightly 
bent, thin locks white as the snow, and deep blue eyes full of 


MY GRANDFATHER. 19 


fire and intelligence, and after long years of uninterrupted 
health and useful labor, he was suddenly stricken down, with no 
prospect of recovery. 

“T hope he is better,” said my mother, hearing the rumbling 
of the mill-wheel. She might have known my grandfather 
would permit no interruption of the usual business on account 
of his illness—the neighbors, he said, could not do without 
bread because he was sick, nor need they all be idle, waiting 
for him to die. When the time drew near, he would call them 
to take his farewell and his blessing, but till then let thern sew 
and spin, and do all things just as usual, so they would please 
him best. He was a stern man—even his kindness was un- 
compromising and unbending, and I remember of his making 
toward me no manifestation of fondness, such as grandchildren 
usually receive, save once, when he gave me a bright red apple, 
without speaking a word till my timid thanks brought out his 
“ Save your thanks for something better.” The apple gave me 
no pleasure, and I even slipt into the mill to escape from his 
cold forbidding presence. 

Nevertheless, he was a good man, strictly honest, and upright 
in all his dealings, and respected, almost reverenced, by every- 
body. I remember once, when young Winters, the tenant of 
Deacon Granger’s farm, who paid a great deal too much for his 
ground, as I have heard my father say, came to mill with some 
withered wheat, my grandfather filled up the sacks out of his 
own flour, while Tommy was in the house at dinner. That was 
a good deed, but Tommy Winters never suspected how his 
wheat happened to turn out so well. 

As we drew near the house, it seemed to me more lonesome 
and desolate than it ever looked before. I wished I had staid 
at home with little Harry. So eagerly I noted every thing, 
that I remember to this day, that near a trough of water, in the 
lane, stood a little surly looking cow, of a red color, and with 
a white line running along her back. I had gone with aunt 
Carry often when she went to milk her, but to-day she seemed 
not to have been milked. Near her was a black and white 
heifer, with sharp short horns, and a square board tied over her 
eyes; two horses, one of them gray, and the other sorrel, with 


20 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


a short tail, were reaching their long necks into the garden, and 
browsing from the currant bushes. As we approached they 
trotted forward a little, and one of them, half playfully, half 
angrily, bit the other on the shoulder, after which they returned 
quietly to their cropping of the bushes, heedless of the voice 
that from across the field was calling to them. 

A flock of turkeys were sunning themselves about the door, 
for no one came to scare them away; some were black, and 
some speckled, some with heads erect and tails spread, and 
some nibbling the grass; and with a gabbling noise, and a 
staid and dignified march, they made way for us. The smoke 
arose from the chimney in blue, graceful curls, and drifted away 
to the woods; the dead morning-glory vines had partly fallen 
from the windows, but the hands that tended them were grown 
careless, and they were suffered to remain blackened and void 
of beauty, as they were. Under these, the white curtain was 
partly put aside, and my grandmother, with the speckled 
handkerchief pinned across her bosom, and her pale face, a 
shade paler than usual, was looking out, and seeing us she came 
forth, and in answer to my mother’s look of inquiry, shook her 
head, and silently led the way in. The room we entered had 
some home-made carpet, about the size of a large table-cloth, 
spread in the middle of the floor, the remainder of which was 
scoured very white; the ceiling was of walnut wood, and the 
side walls were white-washed—a table, an old-fashioned desk, 
and some wooden chairs, comprised the furniture. On one of 
the chairs was a leather cushion; this was set to one side, my 
grandmother neither offering it to my mother, nor sitting in it 
herself, while, by way of composing herself, I suppose, she took 
off the black ribbon with which her cap was trimmed. This 
was a more simple process than the reader may fancy, the 
trimming, consisting merely of a ribbon, always black, which 
she tied around her head after the cap was on, forming a bow 
and two ends just above the forehead. Aunt Carr who was 
of what is termed an even disposition, received us with her 
usual cheerful demeanor, and then, re-seating herself comfort- 
ably near the fire, resumed her work, the netting of some white 
fringe. 


MY GRANDFATHER. 21 


I liked aunt Carry, for that she always toox especial pains to 
entertain me, showing me her patchwork, taking me with her to 
the cow-yard and dairy, as also to the mill, though in this last I 
fear she was a little selfish; however, that made no difference 
to me at the time, and I have always been sincerely grateful to 
her: children know more, and want more, and feel more, than 
people are apt to imagine. 

On this occasion she called me to her, and tried to teach me 
the mysteries of her netting, telling me I must get my father to 
buy me a little bureau, and then I could net fringe and make a 
nice cover for it. For a little time I thought I could, and ar- 
ranged in my mind where it should be placed, and what should 
be put into it, and even went so far as to inquire how much 
fringe she thought would be necessary. I never attained to 
much proficiency in the netting of fringe, nor did I ever get the 
little bureau, and now it is quite reasonable to suppose I never 
shall. 

Presently my father and mother were shown into an adjoin- 
ing room, the interior of which I felt an irrepressible desire to 
see, and by stealth I obtained a glimpse of it before the door 
closed behind them. There was a dull brown and yellow carpet 
on the floor, and near the bed, on which was a blue and white 
coverlid, stood a high-backed wooden chair, over which hung a 
towel, and on the bottom of which stood a pitcher, of an unique 
pattern. I know not how I saw this, but I did, and perfectly 
remember it, notwithstanding my attention was in a moment 
completely absorbed by the sick man’s face, which was turned 
towards the opening door, pale, livid, and ghastly. Itrembled, 
and was transfixed; the rings beneath the eyes, which had 
always been deeply marked, were now almost black, and the 
blue eyes within looked glassy and cold, and terrible. The ex- 
pression of agony on the lips (for his disease was one of a most 
painful nature) gave place to a sort of smile, and the hand, twisted 
among the gray locks, was withdrawn and extended to welcome 
my parents, as the door closed. That was a fearful moment; 
I was near the dark steep edges of the grave; I felt, for the 
first time, that I was mortal too, and I was afraid. 

Aunt Carry put away her work, and taking from a nail in 


22 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the window-frame a brown muslin sun-bonnet, which seemed , 
to me of half a yard in depth, she tied it on my head, and then 
clapt her hands as she looked into my face, saying, “ bo-peep !” 
at which I half laughed and half cried, and making provision for 
herself in grandmother’s bonnet, which hung on the opposite 
side of the window, and was similar to mine, except that it was 
perhaps a little larger, she took my hand and we proceeded to 
the mill, Oliver, who was very busy on our entrance, came 
forward, as aunt Carry said, by way of introduction, “A little 
visiter ’'ve brought you,” and arranged a seat on a bag of meal 
for us, and taking off his straw hat, pushed the red curls from his 
low white forehead, and looked bewildered and anxious. 

“It’s quite warm for the season,” said aunt Carry, by way 
of breaking silence, I suppose. The young man said “ yes,” 
abstractedly, and then asked if the rumble of the mill were not 
a disturbance to the sick room, to which aunt Carry answered, _ 
“No, my father says it is his music.” 

“A good old man,” said Oliver, “he will not hear it much 
longer,” and then, even more sadly, “every thing will be 
changed.” Aunt Carry was silent, and he added, “I have 
been here a long time, and it will make me very sorry to go 
away, especially when such trouble is about you all.” 

“Oh, Oliver,” said aunt Carry, “you don’t mean to go 
away?’ “I see no alternative,” he replied; “I shall have 
nothing to do; if I had gone a year ago it would have been bet- 
ter.” “ Why ?” asked aunt Carry; but I think she understood 
why, and Oliver did not answer directly, but said, “ Almost 
the last thing your father said to me was, that you should never 
marry any who had not a house and twenty acres of land; if 
he has not, he will exact that promise of you, and I cannot ask 
you not to make it, nor would you refuse him if I did; I might 
have owned that long ago, but for my sister (she had lost her 
reason) and my lame brother, whom I must educate to be a 
schoolmaster, because he never can work, and my blind mother ; 
but God forgive me! I must not and do not complain; you 
will forget me, before long, Carry, and some body who is richer 
and better, will be to you all I once hoped to be, and perhaps 
more.” 


MY GRANDFATHER. 28 


I did not understand the meaning of the conversation at the 
time, but I felt out of place some way, and so, going to another 
part of the mill, I watched the sifting of the flour through the 
snowy bolter, listening to the rumbling of the wheel. When | 
looked around I perceived that Oliver had taken my place on 
the meal-bag, and that he had put his arm around the waist of 
aunt Carry in a way I did not much like. 

Great sorrow, like a storm, sweeps us aside from ordinary 
feelings, and we give our hearts into kindly hands—so cold and 
hollow and meaningless seem the formule of the world. They 
had probably never spoken of love before, and now talked of it 
as calmly as they would have talked of any thing else; but 
they felt that hope was hopeless; at best, any union was de- 
ferred, perhaps, for long years; the future was full of uncer- 
tainties. At last their tones became very low, so low I could 
not hear what they said; but I saw that they looked very sor- 
rowful, and that aunt Carry’s hand lay in that of Oliver as 
though he were her brother. 

“Why don’t the flour come through ?” I said, for the sifting 
had become thinner and lighter, and at length quite ceased. 
Oliver smiled, faintly, as he arose, and saying, “This will 
never buy the child a frock,” poured a sack of wheat into the 
hopper, so that it nearly run over. Seeing no child but myself, 
I supposed he meant to buy me a new frock, and at once re- 
solved to put it in my little bureau, if he did. 

“We have bothered Mr. Hillhouse long enough,” said aunt 
Carry, taking my hand, “and will go to the house, shall we 
not ?” 

I wondered why she said “ Mr. Hillhouse,” for I had never 
heard her say so before; and Oliver seemed to wonder, too, 
for he said reproachfully, laying particular. stress on his own 
name, ‘‘ You don’t bother Mr. Hillhouse, I am sure, but I must 
not insist on your remaining if you wish to go.” 

“J don’t want you to insist on my staying,” said aunt Carry, 
“if you don’t want to, and I see you don’t,” and lifting me 
out to the sloping plank, that bent beneath us, we descended. 

“ Carry,” called a voice behind us; but she neither answered 
nor looked back, but seemed to feel a sudden and expressive 


24 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


fondness for me, took me up in her arms, though I was almost 
too heavy for her to lift, and kissing me over and over, said I 
was light as a feather, at which she laughed as though neither 
sorrowful nor lacking for employment. 

This little passage I could never precisely explain, aside from 
the ground that “the course of true love never did run smooth.” 
Half an hour after we returned to the house, Oliver presented 
himself at the door, saying, “ Miss Caroline, shall I trouble you 
for a cup, to get a drink of water?” Carry accompanied him 
to the well, where they lingered some time, and when she re- 
turned her face was sunshiny and cheerful as usual. 

The day went slowly by, dinner was prepared, and removed, 
scarcely tasted ; aunt Carry wrought at her fringe, and grand- 
mother moved softly about, preparing teas and cordials. 

Towards sunset the sick man became easy, and expressed a 
wish that the door of his chamber might be opened, that he 
might watch our occupations and hear our talk. It was done 
accordingly, and he was left alone. My mother smiled, saying 
she hoped he might yet get well, but my father shook his head 
mournfully, and answered, “ He wishes to go without our 
knowledge.” He made amplest provision for his family 
always, and I believe had a kind nature, but he manifested no 
little fondnesses, nor did he wish caresses for himself. Con- 
trary to the general tenor of his character, was a love of quiet 
jests, that remained to the last. Once, as Carry gave him 
some drink, he said, “ You know my wishes about your future, 
I expect you to be mindful.” 

I stole to the door of his room in the hope that he would say 
something to me, but he did not, and I went nearer, close to 
the bed, and timidly took his hand in mme; how damp and 
cold it felt! yet he spoke not, and climbing upon the chair, I 
put back his thin locks, and kissed his forehead. “Child, you 
trouble me,” he said, and these were the last words he ever 
spoke to me. 

The sun sunk lower and lower, throwing a beam of light 
through the little window, quite across the carpet, and now it 
reached the sick man’s room, climbed over the bed and up the 
wall; he turned his face away, and seemed to watch its glim- 


A 
MY GRANDFATHER. 25 


mer upon the ceiling. The atmosphere grew dense and dusky, 
but without clouds, and the orange light changed to a dull lurid 
red, and the dying and dead leaves dropt silently to the ground, 
for there was no wind, and the fowls flew into the trees, and 
the gray moths came from beneath the bushes and fluttered in 
the waning light. From the hollow tree by the mill came the 
bat, wheeling and flitting blindly about, and once or twice its 
wings struck the window of the sick man’s chamber. The last 
sunlight faded off at length, and the rumbling of the mill-wheel 
was still: he had fallen asleep in listening to its music. 

The next day came the funeral. What a desolate time it 
was! All down the lane were wagons and carriages and horses, 
for every body that knew my grandfather would pay him the 
last honors he could receive in the world. “We can do him 
no further good,” they said, “but it seemed right that we 
should come.” Close by the gate waited the little brown wagon 
to bear the coffin to the grave, the wagon in which he was used 
to ride while living. The heads of the horses were drooping, 
and I thought they looked consciously sad. : 

The day was mild, and the doors and windows of the old 
house stood all open, so that the people without could hear the 
words of the preacher. I remember nothing he said ; I remem- 
ber of hearing my mother sob, and of seeing my grandmother 
with her face buried in her hands, and of seeing aunt Carry 
sitting erect, her face pale but tearless, and Oliver near her, 
with his hands folded across his breast save once or twice, when 
he lifted them to brush away tears. 

I did not cry, save from a frightened and strange feeling, but 
kept wishing that we were not so near the dead, and that it 
were another day. I tried to push the reality away with 
thoughts of pleasant things—in vain. I remember the hymn, 
and the very air in which it was sung. 


“Ye fearful souls fresh courage take, 
° The clouds ye so much dread, 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 
And scan his works in vain ; 

God is his own interpreter, 
And he will make it plain.” 


26° OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Near the door blue flagstones were laid, bordered with a 
row of shrubberies and trees, with lilacs, and roses, and pears, 
and peach-trees, which my grandfather had planted long ago, 
and here, in the open air, the coffin was placed, and the white 
cloth removed, and folded over the lid. I remember how it 
shook and trembled as the gust came moaning from the woods, 
and died off over the next hill, and that two or three withered 
leaves fell on the face of the dead, which Oliver gently re- 
moved, and brushed aside a yellow-winged butterfly that 
hovered near. 

The friends hung over the unsmiling corpse till they were led 
weeping and one by one away; the hand of some one rested 
for a moment on the forehead, and then the white cloth was 
replaced, and the lid screwed down. ‘The coffin was placed in 
the brown wagon, with a sheet folded about it, and the long 
train moved slowly to the burial-ground woods, where the 
words “dust to dust” were followed by the rattling of the 
earth, and the sunset light fell there a moment, and the dead 
leaves blew across the smoothly shapen mound. 

When the will was read, Oliver found himself heir to a for- 
tune—the mill and the homestead and half the farm—provided 
he married Carry, which he must have done, for though I do not 
remember the wedding, I have had an aunt Caroline Hillhouse 
almost as long as I can remember. ‘The lunatic sister was sent 
to an asylum, where she sung songs about a faithless lover till 
death took her up and opened her eyes in heaven. The mother 
was brought home, and she and my grandmother lived at their 
ease, and sat in the corner, and told stories of ghosts, and 
witches, and marriages, and deaths, for long years. Peace to 
their memories! for they have both gone home; and the lame 
brother is teaching school, in his leisure playing the flute, and 
reading Shakspeare—all the book he reads. 

Years have come and swept me away from my childhood, 
from its innocence and blessed unconsciousness of the dark, but 
often comes back the memory of its first sorrow! 

Death is less terrible to me now. 


LIGHT AND SHADE. 27 


LIGHT AND SHADE, 


Tue ground-work of life is generally in shadow; the light 
glimmers for a little while, here and there, and fades off—for 
that the lips we love smile for us no longer, or settle into that 
still and placid and fearful smile that no kiss of ours can deepen ; 
the lids grow weary and droop over the eyes whence fell our 
sunshine; and so, as the years pass, the darkness is more dense 
and full of melancholy. The blooms drop out of the thorn-tree 
and leave it unsightly and bare; the bubbling spring that lay 
cool under its white flowers, shrinks away more and more, leav- 
ing but slimy bubbles, and dries up; the hills we saw in the 
luxuriant beauty of their summer wealth grow dreary with the 
furrows of graves. Life, indeed, is a solemnity and a mystery, 
full of anxieties and sufferings, restlessness and weariness; but 
it gathers strength amid night and desolation, and receives that 
fullness of its beauty, with which it is adorned for going through 
the golden gates, in a baptism of fire. Pilgrim! have courage, 
for the promise of rest brightens like a chaplet full of dew, and 
the withered staff, as the fair towers are approached, breaks 
into blossoms ; and, maiden, heavy with the anguish of disap- 
pointed hopes! gather from your pallid cheeks the fallen locks, 
and wait till the morning; weary and worn and disconsolate ! 
be patient, and calm, and hopeful, wait till the morning—for as 
a child, frightened at the dark, falls tearfully asleep, and wakes 
in his mother’s arms, are we all—living, and dying, and wakizg. 
Wait till the morning! 

It is a great thing to have this hope shining with the stead- 
fast beauty of a star, away above us and before us—this hope 


28 “OUR NEIGHBORHIOHD, 


of waking in immortality, of laying off all weariness, and of 
being in purity and truthfulness as children, But ever and 
aside from this, there are other, and earthly hopes, brightly 
dear to us. Who, in the sorrowful household of humanity, so 
lost in the wild crying of his own heart, or so closed about in 
the chill folds of dumb and helpless apathy, that he has not 
sometimes risen, equal to the hardest trial, and dashed from 
him the power and the presence of evil, as a strong swimmer 
the audacious waves ! 

Among the lights which lie among the shadows of life, the 
brightest is love, and the love of little children, perhaps, has the 
sweetest shine of all. Of such love I am thinking to-day, or 
rather of one such, for it is not of many but of one that I muse 
—one being, whose life now is only a beautiful memory, for long 
years the dismal autumn rains have beaten down the blossoms 
on her grave. We were little girls together— 


She was the fairer in the face, 


and death chose her for her beauty. Her cheek was colorless, 
her eyes large and dark, and her lips smiling, though very 
faintly always, for she was never mirthful, and never angry ; 
and this last it is which makes her memory ever a reproach to 
me. I knew not how great my love was till she was gone; 
but the edges of the grave are steep, and it is not enough to lift 
her from the darkness that the arms of my penitence may fold 
her as I take her kiss of forgiveness on my forehead for a 
crown. 

It is June now, and all day the birds sing to her their artless 
songs. But the window of her narrow house is covered thick with 
dust, and she does not hear. The white violets fringe the green 
coverlid that is over her, but her little hands are not unfolded to 
gather them any more ; and when morning slants rosily over her, 
saying, Wake! it is day ! she does not start, but with the golden 
curls dropping over her still pillow, sleeps on just the same. In 
the morning of the resurrection she will wake; and Thou who, 
ere the thorns were put off from thy forehead for the glory, didst 
take little children in thy arms and bless them, make her 


Se 


eS ee ee ee ea ee es 


ee ee eee ee a 


LIGHT AND SHADE. 29 


thine, for in the world she had the beauty thou hast given to 
thine angels, 

She was seven, and I ten, and I chose for my constant play- 
mate one two years older than myself, instead of her. She 
was gentle and patient, and I wayward and petulant; and 
though I loved her, I sometimes vexed and thwarted her. | 
atoned, as I fancied, though I now think it was poor atonement, 
by making her wreaths of wild flowers or new dresses for her 
doll. When I did so, she never failed to receive them just as 
kindly as though I had never been ungenerous or ungentle. 

As I said, I was three years older than she; and though ] 
had a thousand wild freaks which her quiet nature never imag 
ined, I thought her quite too much of a child to be my com- 
panion, and my chief sin was in stealing away from her when ] 
knew she wished to be with me. Sometimes, indeed, my 
chosen friend and I would persuade her to stay at home when 
we proposed a ramble in the woods or a visit to some favorite 
haunt, with the promise that she should go another time, or 
that we would bring her nuts or berries or orchard blossoms, 
or whatever chanced to be in season. When we condescended 
to do this, she almost always remained behind, reluctantly we 
knew, but without opposing her will to ours. And not unfre- 
quently we told her to go to her own little playhouse; that 
something pretty was there; or that some one called her within 
doors; and under such false pretences stole away to our 
pleasures. 

One morning, how well I remember the time! it was late in 
November, the woods were all dreary and withered,.the huskers 
were in the corn-fields gathering the yellow ears and cutting the 
stalks, in preparation for the plough, and we could see the teams | 
of oxen and horses standing patiently here and there, and hear 
the rattling, as the full baskets were emptied one after another, 
and the barking of the dogs, that, trailing among weeds and 
stubble, now startled a wild bird and now a rabbit, with the 
halloo and the whistle that set them on. The day was mild for 
the time, and the blue haze hung along the edges of the hori- 
zon. The butterflies, blue, and speckled, and yellow, that had 
hovered over the streams all the late summer, were gone, and 


30 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the waters, stagnant and drying away; but for this we did not 
care—we were going to gather pebbles. 

We had made several unsuccessful attempts to get away 
from little Jule, for so we called her. She was not well that 
morning, and felt more dependent than usual. Children are 
- not easily deceived; and though once, when she saw us flying 
down the green lane, and called after us to stop, we ran back, 
saying we were only trying to see how fast we could run, she 
seemed still suspicious; and when we sat down, as though we 
had no intention of stirring all the day, she hung about our 
chairs, and wanted us to tell her stories, or to make her some- 
thing pretty, or go with her somewhere. At last my patience 
was exhausted, and I said, angrily, “If I were you, I would not 
stay where I was not wanted !” 

She hung down her head. I saw my advantage, and con- 
tinued, though a little softened, “Go to your playhouse and 
play, that’s a dear girl.” 

“No, no,” said Jule; “I want to stay here.” 

“You want to stay here, do you? Well, stay, we are going 
to the woods.” 

This I said in a most unamiable manner—one that brought 
tears to her eyes—as she said, “I want to go with you.” 

“T thought you said you wanted to stay here, and now you 
want to go.” 

I knew very well she but wished to do whatever should be 
done by us, and so added, “If you want to go to the woods, 
why go, and we will stay at home.” 

She sat down in her little unpainted chair, and confusedly 
pulled the curl out of her long yellow hair. 

“You are going to stay here?” I said, and with bonnets hid- 
den under our aprons, that no one might suspect our intention, 
we left the house. We had not gone far, when, looking round 
to assure ourselves that our flight was undiscovered—for we 
had not asked permission to go—we saw little Jule following. 
We ran fast at first, but she almost as fast as we, and so paus- 
ing till she came near, we intimidated her by saying we were 
going past the corn-field where the dogs were; that there might 
be twenty, for aught we knew; in fact, we expected there were, 


LIGHT AND SHADE. 81 . 


and it was likely, too, they would come after us and bite us, 
We could run faster than she, and get out of reach, and if they 
caught her, we could not help it: she had warning. 

Her lip trembled, and without wiping away the tears that 
gathered to her eyes, or crying audibly, she crossed: her hands 
before her, and, looking at us reproachfully, suffered us to go 
on alone. At first we did so in high glee, but presently con- 
science smote me, and, looking back, I saw her standing just 
where I had left her. I was half disposed to call her to come 
with us. If I had, how many pangs it would have saved me! 
but the evil spirit prevailed, and we went on. 

There are acts, little and trifling in themselves, which have, 
nevertheless, power to haunt us forever; and, like the serpent 
in Eden, 


“We cannot climb a ring’s length against the curse.” 


When the fruit we deemed sweetest in gathering turns to ashes 
on our lips, the cells of Hybla are filled for us in vain. 

Perhaps the childish misdemeanor I have recorded may, in 
the mind of the reader, lift the shroud from some pale uncon- 
scious faces, making a dim and shadowy array between him 
and the light. Fasting, nor prayer, nor penitence, nor scourge, 
may ever wholly lay the ghosts of bad actions. When we 
least expect them, they open the doors of our most secret cham- 
bers, and come in. 

There were still a few withered flowers on shrunken and 
black stalks in the fields. The grass along the streams was 
matted and gray; the ripe nuts covered all the ground, and the | 
squirrels were gathering their winter hoards. Drifts of dead 
leaves went cloud-like before the winds, and we pleased our- 
selves with hiding in their folds, or gathering them in our arms, 
and tossing them wildly upon the sweeping currents of the air. 

Then we walked up and down the brooks that only here and 
there rippled among the blue stones, which we turned and. over- 
turned, in search of curious pebbles. After this we peeled 
great mats of green and yellow mosses from the roots of trees 
and decaying logs, partly because they were pretty, and partly as 
a carpet for the playhouse of Jule, whom, alone and unhappy, 


82 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


we could not keep quite out of our thoughts, especially as the 
day grew towards its close. 

The sun was low in the west when, with our aprons filled 
with moss and pebbles and other such treasures, tired and 
hungry, we set out for home. The cattle from the meadows 
had preceded us, and the corn-gatherers, with their oxen and 
dogs, were all gone. - One narrow strip of fiery cloud hung over 
the west, but it faded and faded as we went on, unveiling im- 
mediately beneath it, just as we arrived at home, one star, look- 
ing very cold and large, and far away. 

We fitted the moss nicely together on the floor of Julia’s 
playhouse, in alternate parts of green and yellow, as an agreea- 
ble surprise for her, before noticing that in the chamber where 
we slept a light was burning—which interested us; but 
our curiosity was heightened into positive fear, when through 
the little square window from which the white muslin curtain 
was blown aside we saw a strange woman, who, in a very 
snowy cap, seemed to be bending over the bed. Julia, we 
knew, was not well in the morning, and we felt at once the 
truth—she was now very ill. 

There was a great deal of going in and out of her chamber—- 
softly, very softly ; a little talk, in low tones, and an unpleasant 
odor of medicine all over the house. It was some time be- 
fore we could be persuaded to go and see her; but at last, 
stricken and ashamed, we stood by her bedside. I remember 
how her face was burning, under her curls, but she smiled 
sweetly, and reaching out her arms to embrace us, said, “I am 
so glad you are come, for the dogs you told me of made me 
afraid.” Her arms were hot about my neck, as she asked me 
if | would take her next time. I readily promised to do so 
when she should be well, and told her about the moss we had 
brought, and of a thousand things I would do for her when she 
recovered. 

Every day she grew worse, and scarcely would anything 
keep me from the room a single moment. I had learned what 
death was, when my grandfather died; the scenes at the old 
home by the mill haunted me; I was afraid. I could not eat, 
nor sleep, nor rest. Her disease was a fever, very malignant; 


LIGHT AND SHADE. 83 


and, with continual bending over her, and with exhaustion, I | 
became infected, and was forced away from her. ‘The last 
words she ever said to me were, “ When I get well, and you 
get well, you will take me with you; won’t you?” I remem- 
ber only faintly, for I know not who it was, of some one com- 
ing to my bedside in the night time, and touching me softly 
and startlingly, telling me she was dead. Afteran interval of a 
day or two, they brought the coffin. Perfectly I remember 
how she looked. She was smiling, as she smiled in life, and 
her hands were crossed on her bosom, just as I had seen them a 
thousand times. 

The spring had come back ere I went to the woods again— 
for violets to plant about her grave. Often I looked to the spot 
where I had left her alone in her childish sorrow, but she was 
not there. What would I not have given to unsay those harsh 
words—what would I not give now! 

Years have gone by, and the grave about which I planted the 
violets is a long way from me now; but I[ think of it often, and 
never without a shadow falling over my heart. Her dife was 
short, but she died while splendor was in the morning clouds, 
but I, lingering on till the noon is past, have felt all the day’s 
heat and burden. Away in the distance lies her brief existence, 
bordering my own, like a beam of beautiful light ; but from her 
grave stretches a shadow that would reach me in the uttermost 
parts of the world. 


Q* 


&4 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


THE STRANGE LADY. 


In a quiet little valley, scooped among the river hills, where 
there was always a murmur and always mist, creeping over the 
turf, and reaching softly from bough to bough, sometimes dark 
ened with shadows, and sometimes streaky with sunlight, stands 
a desolate and ruinous cabin, where once dwelt a person, called 
by her neighbors, the strange lady; by herself, Mrs. Clifford. 
All the summer the grass in this pretty scene was nearly covered 
with flowers—king-cups, and red anemonees, and pale daisies— 
while the hedge of sassafras, that ran up the slopes, shook with 
the melody of a thousand birds, especially when the rosy twi- 
light of morning faded into the clear light of day. 

A little way from the cabin door, by a wall of gray stone, where 
the morning-glory hung blue-bells in the sunshine and the wild 
rose climbed and blossomed, a spring of bright clear water 
washed over its mossy rim, and rippled like a skein of silver 
down until it lost itself in deeper and darker waves, 

The valley seems less beautitul now; for though nature is 
lovely always, humanity gives it a deeper charm, lost, fallen, 
and ruined as it is. There is a moaning and a wailing in the 
deep bosom of the earth, that were not there when the wings of 
the angels cleft open the golden clouds which hung between the 
lower and the upper heaven, ere, with but the ruins of immor- 
tality, the sinful ones went out from Paradise, waking, with 
their slightest footsteps, the awful echoes of the grave. Sin, 
sin! the world because of thee is darkened from her early glory, 
and in all her beautiful borders there are hearts that can only 
lay their great burdens aside on the starry threshold of eternity. 

Whether the shadow of previous transgression, I know not, 


THE STRANGE LADY. 35 


but very evidently some mystery hung over the history of Mrs. 
Clifford. She came to live in the cabin, no one knew whence, 
clad in the deepest mourning, and seemingly with no light in 
her heart but that which went from the face of her cherub boy, 
just beginning to smile back to the smile of his fair but deso- 
late mother. Her furniture was comprised in a few simple 
articles, such as suited so humble a home: a bed, a few chairs 
and a table, a little crockery and a cradle, making all except a 
shelf of books—-some of them old and worn, and some glitter- 
ing in gold and velvet. In the former was written, in a light, 
graceful hand, “Mary Wilford,” and in the latter, in heavier 
and firmer characters, “'To Mary, from L, C.” 

Often, in the pleasant weather, the pale lady might be seen 
sitting in the shadow of the elm that grew close by her door 
and trailed its lithe boughs against the eaves—whereon the 
milk-white doves sunned their plumage as the day went down, 
and about which the steel-blue swallows circled and twittered 
very tamely; often, with her book, and him whose electric 
touches not unfrequently drew her attention quite away from 
its pages, she sat there, hour after hour, till the shining 
beams that burnt through the tree-tops went down, and the star 
of love stood blushing on the threshold of the night. Then, 
retiring within doors, as the laughter and gay pranking of the 
little one were hushed, she would sing fragments of songs, in a 
voice sweet and low, ie always deeply Paneer, till the dimpled 
little hands were folded in sleep. 

There was seldom any light in her cabin. Jn summer the 
moonlight streamed pale and cold through the open door, and 
the bat flitted in and out.as it would, and the ‘owl complained 
from the elm to the winds, that stopped not for its song of sor- 
row, but kept running to and fro—now laughing among the 
thick leaves, and now crying dismally from the tops of the hills. 
In winter the embers only threw a faint glow over the little 
window, darkened with the matted vines of creepers and sweet- 
brier, that, interwoven, clambered over the cabin side, unpruned 
and untrained. 

For a time there were many rumors and surmises about the 
strange lady; but gradually they died away. The visits of the 


86 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


neighbors, whether prompted by kindness or curiosity, were at 
length discontinued; for, though they were received in a man- 
ner singularly sweet and gentle, they were never returned ; 
and, finally, her seclusion was only broken by the old woman 
who carried milk to her. She, however, declared that the 
strange lady had always a kind word for her, and that a glimpse 
of the “little darling” made her happier all day. 

As the child grew older, he was often seen toddling about in 
a simple slip and straw hat, with his hands full of dandelions 
and daisies, while his mother sat under the elm, frequently 
looking from her volume to see that he strayed not too far; for 
the child seemed to love solitude even more than the mother. 
And, as years went by, he would sit alone, watching the dancing 
of the motes in the sunshine, and the circling and wheeling of 
the swallows about the cabin roof. He loved the clouds and 
the mists best of all things, and stole often to the nooks least 
haunted with birds, most shut from the sunshine. He had his 
mother’s melancholy in his deep eyes ; even his smile was sad, 
whether from predisposition, or from habit and association, I 
cannot tell. He cared little for books, and his mother, to 
whose lightest wish he was accustomed to yield, could only 
with difficulty persuade him to learn to read. 

Requiring less of her care and attention as he grew, the 
golden threads which had for a time woven themselves through 
the web of her life, faded out; the songs that used to lull the 
baby to sleep were forgotten; the favorite volumes had no 
longer any charm, and lay in her lap wnopened all the day. 
She came forth to the elm shadow less frequently, and with a 
fainter step. A little in the future, time was turning the dark 
furrow of that valley, where the weary have their rest. 

Nine years had gone by since Mrs. Clifford came to the cabin, 
and her child scarcely knew that beyond the dark hem of hills 
and woods that girdled his world there was another and a 
harsher one, 


The swallows were gone, the leaves on the elm-tree were 


yellow, and dropping silently, one by one, to the ground—it 
was the middle of autumn. All day the young lad had been 
in the woods, listening to the dropping of the nuts) and the dull 


ae ee ee eT 


THE STRANGE LADY. . 37 


moaning of the winds, as they covered the flowers with dead 
leaves. Gray, heavy clouds spread over all the face of heaven, 
and, at the fall of night, the rain began to patter on the roof, in 
pleasant and mournful music. The child returned from his 
deeper isolation, sat under the tree, bright drops occasionally 
lodging in his golden curls, or plashing on his cheek. He was 
wondering whether the stars were swept from the sky, or whe 
ther, beyond the storm, they burned brightly on. 

“ My child, my child, will you not come to me?” called the 
low voice of his mother, more lowly and sorrowfully than it had 
ever called before. In a moment he was by her side; and with 
her thin, cold fingers, she parted the bright curls that the winds 
had blown about his forehead, and kissed him many times, 
before she said, “I am going a long journey very soon—it may 
be to-night—and shall never come back to you any more. [| 
am weary and worn, and am going where they never say, I am 
sick. The good Father will put his arms about you, if you 
love him, when mine embrace you no longer.” She sank back 
on her pillow, and was still, though her eyes turned not from 
the child, hanging over her like a young bough stricken sud- 
denly into stone. Scarcely knew he what the mystery was of 
which she spoke, but he shuddered with the instinctive dread 
which all feel when death is very near. The darkness had 
never seemed so terrible; and, as the dead vines creaked 
against the window, and the storm beat against the roof, he was 
afraid. “Mother!” he called, at first softly, then louder, and 
more loud, but she did not answer. He put his hands on her 
forehead, and it felt cold and damp. He kissed her lips; and, 
when she returned not his kisses, he knew she was dead. 

As childhood will, he tried to push the awful reality away. 
He thought of the dropping nuts, of the white mists that cur- 
tained the hills, and of sunshine and the birds. Suddenly he 
remembered a nest that, in the spring, was under the gloomy 
arch of an old bridge. near the woodland, where every day he 
went to watch the growth of the nestlings, but one bright after- 
noon he had found they were gone, and the empty nest half 
crumbled away. Returning mournfully home, he stopped under 
a tree, from which, with the fluttering among the boughs, a 


38 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


shower of bright blossoms rained in his face, followed by a gush 
of delicious music, and, looking up, he saw his lost birds, 
When he had told this story to his mother, he remembered that 
she said, “ We go thus from the dark arches of sorrow, when 
our mortal habitations fell away, to sing among the flowers of 
the trees of Paradise forever and ever.” And with this sacred 
recollection he fell asleep. And so—one to awake and take 
upon her brows the crown of immortality, and one the thorny 
crown of earthly sorrow—they slept. 

There were not so many at the funeral as came to my grand- 
father’s, and young Clifford had no home any more; yet He 
who “giveth sleep to his beloved” holds an invisible shield 
over their children, and the strange lady, living alone and silent 
long, had filled the neighborhood with a mystical sweet affection 
for her child. He is a man now, and his breast is bossed all 
over with hearts. 


THE PRIDE OF SARAH WORTHINGTON. 89 


THE PRIDE OF SARAH WORTHINGTON, 


I roox up one of the papers published in the city which is 
nearest to Clovernook, and turning, as is the habit of women, 
to that part which chronicles the main points in all domestic 
histories, I read, that Sarah Worthington was dead; “after a 
painful illness, aged nineteen years, three months, and eleven 
days.” I read it more than once, to satisfy all questionings of 
my unwilling heart; but there could be no error; the street, 
the incidental revelations of the stricken family, every thing 
confirmed the first impression that had stolen through my eyes 
to my shrinking consciousness. The old truth was again as- 
serted by some friend, in the often repeated verse which fol- 
lowed, that 


“The good die young, 
While they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket.” 


How like a peal of thunder awakening us from some pleas- 
ant dream, when the dashing of the rain at the window, the 
howling of the tempest on the hill, and the blank darkness 
about us, take the place of the soft voice that was in our ears, 
and the smile that warmed our hearts, leaving us for a moment 
startled and bewildered, comes intelligence of the death of 
a friend, whom we left a few weeks, or it may be a few days 
ago, in the enjoyment of vigorous health. 

After the first burst of surprise and sorrow, we fall into a 
train of melancholy musing—when, and under what circum- 
stances was our last meeting with the dead—what did she say, 
and how did she look? was it morning or evening? and was 


40 -OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


our language and manner kind, or reserved and formal? How 
many instances we recall in which kind words might have been 
said that were not said, or kind actions performed that were 
not performed! If it be a near relation who is gone, how much 
of harshness and coldness and indifference we have to reproach 
ourselves for, and how we are tortured with exaggerations of our 
short comings, and idle regrets. 

Who of us all cannot remember some pale lips from which 
we would give all the world to hear the blessed words, “You 
are forgiven.” For myself, there is one darker memory than’ 
all the rest—one, perpetually recurring, and from which I shrink 
away, afraid to think. Mountains, and woods, and waters, 
darken between me and the solitary grave of one who was my 
dearest friend, yet against whom I sinned—not with any pre- 
meditated wrong—but from childish ignorance and sudden pas- 
sion. My lost one! if your dying hands had been laid upon 
my head in forgiveness as well as in blessing, my irrepressible 
grief might long ago have been stilled—that blessing, meant 
for innocency, falling upon guilt, has been my curse, 

All the long summer time I knew that she was dying, yet I 
put off the day of confession. Now she would be better and 
talk of the future, and, accustomed to rely on all she said, I 
would grow hopeful, and in its brightening the dreadful error 
was almost forgot; and when she grew too weak to take me in 
her arms, as she had always done before, and lay all the day 
looking from the open window at the clouds and the grass, and 
I knew instinctively that she must leave us before long, I was 
more than ever afraid to speak. I could not embitter her suf. 
ferings with a knowledge of my early injustice. Sometimes 
my sisters would go away from her chamber for an hour, or 
even for a day, for youth is apt to be inconsiderate; but I was 
there always, bringing the cup of water, wrapping doubly the 
chilly hands and feet, or smoothing the counterpane. A strong 
fascination would not allow me to leave, but when she praised 
my devotion I would go aside and weep. 

So the time went on, and I said not, I have done wrong, I 
have sinned against you, sweet friend, and against heaven; till 
at last the dull shadows of autumn swept across the face of the 


THE PRIDE OF SARAH WORTHINGTON. 41 


summer, and my watching was all done, and the smile which 
they said was so life-like and loving looked reproachful to 
me. 

At night, I am lifted to “ the litter of close-curtained sleep” 
by the phantoms that come up from the grave ; waking, in the 
morning, I go down under the long years, full of pains and sor- 
rows and disappointments, and folding back the shroud, ery out 
to the dust for forgiveness. In vain! There is no green hollow 
in the wilderness, no blank sands of the desert, that to me would 
not be haunted. God, will the tormentor cross the threshold 
of the grave, clouding the pure radiance of eternity with the 
curse that has spread mildew along the summer of my mortal 
existence! Shall the ashes of life’s roses never be taken from 
my head, nor the sackcloth unbound from my bosom ? 

But I meant not this digression—I know not that she of 
whom my little story chiefly is, she who has gone down to death 
and up to judgment before me, may plead against me any- 
thing at all. I mean by this no argument for the better actions 
of my riper years. I have perhaps learned to check impatience 
of temper and impetuosity of speech, but I fear I am farther off 
from heaven now than when I used to think the slender tree- 
tops close against the skies. 


‘The moonlight stealing o’er the scene 
Was blended with the gifts of eve.” 


It was the midst of the harvest—the fragrance of the newly 
cut hay made all the air delicious, for the sythe had been busy 
_ all day in the wide meadows, and along their flat smooth sur- 
faces, and up and down the hills, lay the straight, thick swaths 
—paths for the starlight and beds for the tired winds, for the 
stars were peeping, one after another, above the edges of the 
tree-tops, and the airs, scarcely awake, gave no murmur to the 
thick and dusty foliage. 

Resting on the summit of the eastern hill stood the full moon, 
looking very large, and so pale that “the man with the bag of 
thorns” was distinctly visible, else my juvenile employment— 
for we were playing Hide and Seek—made my childish fancy 
more sharp in apprehension than it was wont to be. 


42 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Let me see—there were half a dozen of us: Ward, my little 
nephew, nine years old then ; Robert, a distant cousin, a young 
man of unusual beauty of character; Sarah Worthington, and 
Ellie, and Hal, and I. A merry party we were, and our laugh- 
ter called up the echoes from the high hills away across the 
orchard and the pasture field and the thick woods. Little green 
stacks were heaped all about the yard; how sweet they made 
the air, and what nice hiding places they were, especially where 
the shadows of the peach trees fell darkly over and about them. 
Ward enjoyed the frolic vastly, though he felt that he was 
caught less often than cousin Robert. It seems to me but yes- 
terday, so fresh is it all in my memory—memory, that some- 
times is so good an angel. Down in the past are scattered 
fountains, sealed with dark rocks almost always, from which it 
is sweet to drink. The game of hide and seek, the time, the 
place, our abandonment of care, and our taking up for a mo- 
ment childish actions, and in part, childish-feelings, are pleasant 
to those who have come up into the noon of the world. New 
grave-mounds, the grass creeping over one, and the other fresh 
and new, darken to-day between me and that time. Away in 
the west stands an old ruinous church; I have seen it once or 
twice, and it is one of those things which, once seen, are never 
forgotten. It has stood there a long time, for I can remember 
it was in little better state of preservation than now as long 
ago asI can remember. The oaks and walnuts that grow there 
throw shadows over the graves of the pioneers, whose piety 
prompted the rude skill, that, earlier than the Revolution, 


‘*Hewed the shaft and laid the architrave,” 


for the temple about which they are sleeping. The living have 
almost deserted it now; the swallows go in at the broken win- 
dows and build their nests where they will; the thousand nails 
in the strong double door are rusty and black; the woodwork, 
never painted, discolored by time to a sort of pearly gray; the 
weatherboards, in places decaying and dropping off. There was 
never belfry nor spire, and the steep mossy roof retains still 
one or two of those angular projections of framework, which 
are only seen on very old houses in the country—placed there 


THE PRIDE OF SARAH WORTHINGTON. 43 


probably for the convenience of the builders. Once in a long 
time some itinerant preacher—some wilderness-crying John, 
girt about with zeal, pauses in the village for a Sabbath, and 
the children of the house, where for a time he abides, bear to all 
the neighbors—all persons living within. a cireuit of four or five 
miles—the intelligence, that at eleven o’clock on Sunday there 
will be a sermon in the old church. At the appointed time the 
congregation gather, slow and calm. But Robert is not there. 
Nor loud denunciation, nor soft admonition, nor trembling hymn, 
provokes the sleeping dust. . 

And the lady of his love, she, who took off the white bridal 
crown for the muffling mourning veil, does she go apart and on 
the simple headstone read his name, the shelter of whose love 
death has broken away? I know not—nor is it well perhaps to 
pause and inquire. 

Full of health and hope he was, the night of our gamesome 
frolic in the moonlight. He had passed the twilight with one 
dearer than any of us, and was in genial mood, for in loving 
one we learn to love all. Scarcely could any of us get home 
to the doorsteps, from our retreats under the lilacs or behind the 
stacks of hay, without being caught, and paying the penalty 
prescribed by the childish law. Even Sarah, usually so stately, 
unbent from her dignity that night, and, when Robert was to be 
overtaken, ran more nimbly than when he was to be the pur- 
suer. She was a beautiful girl, and I have called her stately, 
dignified, but she was also silent, unsocial, selfish. Ithink there 
was nothing in the world she loved, unless it were her little 
dog—to this she was always kind, giving it all the caresses and 
endearing words she had for anything. Mother nor brother nor 
any human being seemed ever to have found the way to her 
heart, and she spoke of her kindred with more than the indiffer- 
ence she gave the veriest stranger. Sometimes she would put 
her arms about me, and seem to love me, but the warm gush 
of feeling, if, for the moment, it really were such, would be in a 
moment put down with an iron will, and between us there was 
a sea of ice. , 

For a long time I marvelled whether the milk which is nat- 
urally in human nature had been thinned by some untimely 


a4 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


frost, or whether it had always been as now. She spoke of no 
past season of sunshine, of no future hope, and to the present, 
a stock or a stone was not more indifferent. Little children 
that may scarcely plead in vain to any one for love, were thrown 
upon her care in vain. What they really required she per- 
formed, indeed, but lower than duty there was no softer feeling. 

I would have solved the problem of her nature. I could 
never learn that she even felt pride in anything, unless perhaps 
in the scorn she bestowed on her fellow creatures. 

Her hair, thick and luxuriant, and black as night, hung, when 
she loosened it from the braids in which it was commonly con- 
fined, and shook it over her shoulders, as she often did, almost 
to her feet. With what a queen-like manner I have seen her 
toss the dark masses from her forehead, and folding her arms 
across her bosom, pace backward and forward through her 
chamber, with no word, but, as if musing on the destruction of 
empires, scaring away, often until after midnight, 


‘* Magic sleep, that comfortable bird.” 


One night I remember well, late in December, still and in- 
tensely cold, we had been sitting an hour before the glowing 
grate, talking of this and that, and I perceived, silently, at the 
time, that Sarah had not once said during our conversation that 
she hated any person or thing, and it was rare that she talked 
without doing so. She was tall, straight as an arrow, and 
seemed to possess a constitution that would resist the chances 
and changes of many years. I speak again of her beauty, for I 
know not whether it was this or her indifference, for we reach 
for the inaccessible always, that gave her the power of fascina- 
tion: all who knew her admired, many even loved her. But 
the heartstrings of her worshippers were ever destined to trem- 
ble with the torture of her careless hand. Of these worshippers 
we had been speaking that night; I, with intent of bringing out 
her feelings, she, because I talked to her. Amongst other things, 
I chanced to say, “There is one of your admirers, Sarah, whom 
you have not seen; to-morrow, if you will, I shall give myself 
the pleasure of making him known to you. Who knows but 
that he is destined to bear from a hundred lovers the prize?” 


@ 


THE PRIDE OF SARAH WORTHINGTON. 45 


“Tt may be, indeed it’s probable, very probable,” she replied 
sarcastically, and placing her hand on her heart, added, laugh 
ingly, “I think I begin to feel susceptible—where is he? tell 
me this hour, this moment! I am all impatience.” 

“Calm yourself,” I said, speaking in the same vein, “and I 
will tell you ‘the color of his hair, and the garment he doth 
wear, and the day of the month he’s to marry unto you,’ as our 
spinning-girl, Sally, used to say when she charmed the moon.” 

“Delay is torture,” she said with assumed earnestness, and 
suddenly throwing herself on her knees, exclaimed, “ Where, O, 
where is this Pandy nian, that, like the pale Phosbus, hunting in, 
a grove, I may stoop and kiss wae sweetest ?” 

“You know lawyer D ” said I, meaning to interrogate. 

The playfulness was gone, and standing erect, she asked in a 
tone I shall never forget—“ Who told you I did 2?” 

I explained briefly what I meant to say, and seating herself 
majestically, a little way from me, she replied sententiously 
and coldly, that she slightly knew him. 

“Our young friend is reading with D »’ Isaid; “we 
shall find him at the office in Fourth-street, when we go to town 
—shall we call ?” 

“No,” was all her answer, and presently making the fire, which 
was growing dim, an excuse, I sought my pillow and seemed 
to sleep, for I felt that farther conversation would be an annoy- 
ance. | 

Left alone, Sarah took the comb from her hair, one of the 
most elaborate and expensive of the then newest style, and 
throwing it on the floor at her feet, shook down her black 
tresses, and in her thin night-dress began walking to and fro 
across the room. In one of the turns the comb broke beneath 
her tread, but she stooped not nor seemed in any way to heed it. 
The lamp burned low, and flickered, and went out; the ashes 
_ gathered gray over the coal, and the frost whitened on the 
panes, so very cold it was, but neither the darkness nor the 
freezing atmosphere seemed to trouble her at all. The clock 
had struck twelve and one and two; and dropping on her 
knees, before the window, she scratched away the frost, and flat- 
tening her cheek against the cold glass, looked insane forth 


46 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


into the street. The lights were all gone from the windows, 
and only once in a long while sounded a step on the frozen 
ground below. 

So still was she, and so strange had been her conduct, that I 
was half afraid. At last 1 ventured to speak, not as though I 
had been conscious of her manner all the night, but rather as if 
she were but then missed. 

“ Pray, don’t disturb me,” she said, “I am talking with the 
angels,” 

Satisfied that she was neither dead nor insane, for strange 
speech was habitual to her, and exhausted with the mental op- 
pression I had endured, I fell asleep, and though I dreamed that 
a skeleton was in my bed with me, I did not wake till morning, 
When I did so, I was half buried in the heavy tresses of Sarah, 
who, stooping over me, bade me awake, adding, “You know 
we are to make that call which is perhaps to decide my des- 
tiny.” ° 

Before the appointed time arrived, however, she had framed 
some excuse, which I received without a question, and the visit 
was not made, nor then nor ever. ‘ 

I have since seen D , much and often; talked with him 
of life and death, and love; but of love he spoke calmly as of 
a client. He is forty, or nearly so, handsome, wealthy, influen- 
tial, grave in manner, but of an iron will that nor hope nor fear 
nor hate nor love may stir from its bent. His deep blue eyes 
would look as coldly and steadily on dying loveliness as on the 
veriest wretch that ever lived and fattened, if he so resolved. He 
is unmarried and a universal favorite. But no matter what he 
is—I have solved the problem that once baffled me— 


‘* As the waters to the marble, 
So my heart fell with a moan” 


as I did so. Poor Sarah! I had sometimes blamed, but I only 
pitied her now. 

It was but this morning I read her obituary, and I cannot yet 
think of her as pale, or sick, or dead. What did she think of 
at the last? and what did she say ? did her thoughts ever cross 
the wild mountains and search me out? Mine have gone back 


THE PRIDE OF SARAH WORTHINGTON. 47 


to her a thousand times. As she went down step by step into 
those silent palaces whither we all are going, did she lean more 
upon the love of kindred? did she see more clearly than in life, 
God’s purposes in the great wo about her heart? I know 
not, I only know that her locks will never again fall about my 
bosom, nor her voice call me to wake. 

I know not whether she sleeps beneath a stately monument 
in the dark vaults, or under the swelling mound; but I know 
that to her pillow the mockery of no smile may come, nor to 
her heart the delusive sweetness of hollow and unmeaning 
words. 


‘* And to sleep, you must lie down in just such a bed!” 


43 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


THE WILDERMINGS. 


THERE came to reside in the neighborhood a family consist- 
ing of three persons—an old lady, a young man, and a child 
some fourteen years of age. The place they took was divided 
by a little strip of woods from Clovernook, and I well remem- 
ber how rejoiced I was on first seeing the blue smoke curling 
up from the high red chimneys; for the cottage had been a 
long time vacant, and the prospect of having people so near us, 
gave me delight. Perhaps, too, I was not the less pleased that 
they were to be new acquaintances. We are likely to under- 
estimate persons and things we have continually about us; but 
let separation come, and we learn what they were to us. 
Apropos of this—in the little grove I have spoken of I remem- 
ber there was an oak tree, taller by a great deal than its fel- 
lows; and a thousand times I have felt as though its mates 
must be oppressed with a painful sense of inferiority, and really 
wished the axe laid at its root. At last, one day, I heard the 
ringing strokes of that destroyer—and, on inquiry, was told 
that the woodman had orders no longer to spare the great oak. 
Eagerly I listened at first—every stroke was like the song of 
victory; then the gladness subsided, and I began to marvel 
how the woods would look with the monarch fallen; then I 
thought, their glory will have departed, and began to reflect 
on myself as having sealed the warrant of its death, so that 
when the crash, telling that it was fallen, woke the sleeping 
echoes from the hills, I cannot tell how sad a feeling it induced 
in my heart. If I could see it standing once more, just once 
more! but I could not, and till this day I feel a regretful pang 
when I think of that grand old tree. 


THE WILDERMINGS. 49 


But the new neighbors. Some curiosity mingled with my 
pleasure, and so, as soon as I thought they were settled, and 
feeling at home, 1 made my toilet with unusual care for a 
first call. 

The cottage was a little way from the main road, and 
access to it was by a narrow grass-grown lane, bordered on one 
side by a green belt of meadow land, and on the other by the 
grove, sloping upward and backward to a clayey hill, where, 
with children and children’s children about them, 


‘¢ The rude forefathers of the hamlet slept.” 


A little farther on, but in full view of its stunted cypresses 
and white headstones, was the cottage. Of burial grounds 
generally I have no dread, but from this particular one I was 
accustomed, from childhood, to turn away with something of 
superstitious horror. I could never forget how Laura Hastings 
saw a light buring there all one winter night, after the death of 
John Hine, a wild, roving fellow, who never did any real harm 
in his life to any one but himself, hastening his own death by 
foolish excesses. Nevertheless, his ghost had been seen more 
than once, sitting on the cold mound beneath which the soul’s 
expression was fading and crumbling: so, at least, said some 
of the oldest and most pious inhabitants of our neighborhood. 
There, too, Mary Wildermings, a fair young girl who died, 
more sinned against than sinning, had been heard to sing sad 
lullabies under the waning moon sometimes, and at other times 
had been seen sitting by her sunken grave, and braiding roses 
in her hair, as for a bridal. J never saw any of these wonder- 
ful things; but a spot more likely to be haunted by the un- 
resting spirits of the bad could not readily be imagined. The 
woods, thick and full of birds, along the roadside, thinned away 
toward the desolate ridge, where briers grew over the*mounds, 
and about and through the fallen fences, as they would, with 
here and there a little clearing among weeds and thistles and 
high matted grass, for the making of a new grave. 

It was the twilight of a beautiful summer day, as I walked 
down the grassy lane and past the lonesome cemetery, to make 
this first call at the cottage, feeling, I scarcely knew why, 

3 


50 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


strangely sad. By an old broken bridge in the hollow, between 
the cottage and the field of death I remember that I sat down, 
and for a long time listened to the: trickling of the water over 
the pebbles, and watched golden spots of sunlight till they quite 
faded out, and “came still evening on, and twilight gray, that 
in her sober livery all things clad.” 

So quietly I sat, that the mole, beginning its blind work at 
sunset, loosened and stirred the ground beneath my feet, and 
the white, thick-winged moths, coming from beneath the dusty 
weeds, fluttered about me, and lightened in my lap, and the 
dull beating of the bat came almost in my face. 

The first complaint of the owl sounded along the hollow and 
died over the next hill, warning me to proceed, when I heard,— 
as it were the echo of my own thought, repeated in a low, mel- 
ancholy yoice—the conclusion of that beautiful stanza of the 
elegy in reference to that moping bird. I distinctly caught the 
lines— 

‘Of such as wandering near her sacred bower, 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.” 

Looking up, I saw approaching slowly, with arms folded and 
eyes on the ground, a young and seemingly handsome man. 
He passed without noticing me at all, and I think without 
seeing me. But I had the better opportunity of observing him, 
though I would have foregone that privilege to win one glance. 
He interested me, and I felt. humiliated that he should pass me 
with this unkind indifference. His face was pale and very sad, 
and his forehead shaded with a heavy mass of black hair, 
pushed away from one temple, and falling neglectedly over 
the other. 

“ Well!” said I, as I watched him ascending the opposite 
hill, feeling very much as though he had wantonly disregarded 
some claim J had on him, though I could not possibly have had 
the slightest ; and, turning ill-humoredly away, I walked with a 
- quick step toward the cottage. 

A golden-haired young girl sat in the window reading, and 
on my approach arose and received me with easy gracefulness 
and well-bred courtesy, but during my stay her manner did not 
once border on cordiality. She was very beautiful, but her 


THE WILDERMINGS. 51 


beauty was like that of statuary. The mother I did not see. 
She was, I was told, indisposed, and, on begging that she might 
not be disturbed, the daughter readily acquiesced. Every 
thing about the place indicated refinement and elegant habits, 
but wherice the family came, how long they proposed to re- 
main, and what relation the young man sustained to the rest, I 
would gladly. have known. 

Seeing a flute on the table, I spoke of music, for I suspected 
it to belong to the absent gentleman. I received no informa- 
tion, however; and as the twilight was already falling deeply, I 
felt a necessity to take leave, without obtaining even a glimpse 
of the person whom I had pictured in my fancy as so young 
and fair, and, of course so agreeable. 

The sun had been set some time, but the moon had risen full 
and bright, so that I had no fear even in passing the graveyard, 
but walked more slowly than I had done before, till, reaching 
the gate, I paused to think of the awful mysteries of life and 
death. 

This is not a very desolate spot after all, I thought, as, lean- 
ing over the gate, something of the quiet of the place infused 
itself into my spirits. Here, I felt, the wicked cease from 
troubling, and the weary are at rest; the long train of evils 
that attach to the best phases of humanity, is quite forgotten ; 
the thorn-crown is loosened from the brow of sorrow by the 
white hand of peace, and the hearts that were all their life- 
time under the shadows of great and haply unpitied afflictions 
never ache any more. And here, best of all! the frailties of 
the unresisting tempted, are folded away beneath the shroud, 
from the humiliating glances of pity, and the cold eyes of pride. 
We have need to be thankful that when man brought on the 
primal glory of his nature the mildew of sin, God did not cast 
us utterly from him, but in the unsearchable riches of his 
mercy struck open the refuge of the grave. If there were no 
fountain where our sins of scarlet might be washed white as 
wool, if the black night of death were not bordered by the 
golden shadows of the morning of immortality, if deep in the 
darkness were not sunken the foundations of the white bastions 
of peace, it were yet an inestimable privilege to lay, aside the 


52 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


burden of life, for life becomes, sooner or later, a burden, and 
an echo among ruins. 

In the corner of the burial ground, where the trees are 
thickest, a little apart from the rest, was the grave of Mary 
Wildermings, and year after year, the blue thistles bloomed 
and faded in its sunken sod. 

The train of my reflections naturally suggested her, and, 
turning my eyes in the direction of her resting place, I saw, or 
thought I saw, the outline of a human figure. I remembered 
the story of her unresting ghost, and at first little doubted that 
I beheld it, and felt a tumult of strange emotions on finding 
myself thus alone near so questionable a shape. 

Then, I said, this is some delusion of the senses; and I passed 
my hand over my eyes, for an uncertain glimmer had followed 
the intensity of my gaze. I looked towards the cottage to re- 
assure myself by the light of a human habitation, but all there 
was dark; a cloud had passed over the moon, and, without 
venturing to look towards the haunted grave, I withdrew from 
the gate, very lightly, though it creaked as I did so. Any 
sound save the beating of my own heart gave me courage; and 
when I had walked a little way, I turned and looked again, 
but the dense shadow would have prevented my seeing any 
thing, if any thing had been there. Certain it is, I saw nothing. 

On reaching home, [ asked the housekeeper, a garrulous per- 
son usually, if she remembered Mary Wildermings, and what 
she could tell me of her burial, in the graveyard across the 
wood. 

“Yes, [ remember her, and she is buried in the corner of the 
ground, on the hill. They came to my house, I know, to get a 
cup, or something of the sort, with which to dip the water from 
her grave, for it rained terribly all the day of her funeral. 
She added, “But what do you want to talk of the dead and 
gone for, when there are living folks enough to talk about ?” 

Truth is, she wanted me to say something of our new neigh- 
bors, and was vexed that I did not, though I probably should 
have done so had they not been quite driven from my mind by 
the more absorbing event of the evening; so, as much vexed 
and disappointed as herself, I retired. The night was haunted 


THE WILDERMINGS. 53 


with sone troublous dreams, but a day of sunshine succeeded, 
and my thoughts flowed back to a more pleasing channel. 

Days and weeks went by, and we neither saw nor heard any- 
thing of our new neighbors, for my call was not returned, nor 
did T make any further overtures towards an acquaintance. 
But often, as I sat under the apple tree by the door, in the twi- 
light, I heard the mellow music of the distant flute. 

“Ts that at the cottage?” said the housekeeper to me, one 
night: “it sounds to me as though it were in the corner of the 
graveyard.” 

I smiled as she turned her head a little to one side, and en- 
circling the right ear with her hand, listened some minutes 
eagerly, and then proceeded to express her conviction that the 
music was the result of no mortal agency. 

‘Did you ever hear of a ghost playing the flute 2?” I said. 

“A flute!” she answered, indignantly, “it’s a flute, just as 
much as you are a flute; and for the sake of enlightening your 
blind understanding, I'll go to the graveyard, night as it is, if 
you will go with me.” 

“Very well,” I said; “let us go.” 

So, under the faint light of the crescent moon, we took our 
way together. Gradually the notes became lower and sadder, and 
at length quite died away. I urged my trembling companion 
to walk faster, lest the ghost should vanish too; and she ac- 
ceded to my wish with a silent alacrity, that convinced me at 
once of the sincerity of her expressed belief. Just as we began 
to ascend the hill, she stopped suddenly, saying, “There! did 
you hear that ?” 

I answered, that I heard a noise, but that it was no unusual 
thing to hear such sounds in. an inhabited neighborhood, at so 
early an hour. “It was the latching of the gate at the grave- 
yard,” she answered, solemnly. “As you value your immortal 
soul, go no further.” 

In vain I argued, that a ghost would have no need to unlatch 
the gate. She positively refused to go farther, and with a cour- 
age not very habitual to me, I walked on alone. 

“Do you think I don’t know that sound?” she called after 
me, “I would know if I had forgotten everything else. Oh, 


54 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


stop, till I tell you! The night Mary Wildermings died,” ] 
heard her say ; but I knew the sound of the gate-as well ag 
she, and would not wait even for a ghost story. I have since 
wished I had, for I could never afterwards persuade her to pro- 
ceed with it. 

Gaining the summit of the hill, I saw, a little way before me, 
a dark figure, receding slowly; but so intent was I on the su- 
perhuman, that I paid little heed to the human; though after- 
ward, in recalling the circumstance, the individual previously 
seen ait I sat on the bridge became in some way associated 
with this one. 

How hushed and solemn the graveyard seemed! I was half 
afraid, as I looked in—quite startled, in fact, when, latching and 
unlatching the gate, to determine whether the sound I had heard 
were that or not, a rabbit, roused from its light sleep, under the 
fallen grass, sped fleetly across the still mounds to the safer 
shelter of the woods. I saw nothing else, save that the grass 
was trampled to a narrow path all the way leading toward 
Mary’s grave. 

During the summer, I sometimes saw the young girl in the 
woods, a I noticed that she neither gathered flowers nor sang 
with the birds; but would sit for hours in some deep shadow, 
without moving her position in the least, not even to push away 
the light curls aan the wind blew over her cheeks and fore- 
head, as they would. She seemed neither to love nor seek 
human companionship. Once only I noticed, and it was the 
last time she ever walked in the woods, that he whom I sup- 
posed to be her brother was with her. She did not sit in the 
shade, as usual, but walked languidly, and leaning heavily on 
the arm of her attendant, who several times swept off the curls 
from her forehead, and bent down, as if kissing her. 

A few days afterwards, being slightly indisposed, I called*in 
the village doctor. Our conversation, naturally, was of who 
was sick and who was dead. 

“ Among my patients,” he said, “ there is none that interests 
me so leeply as a little girl at the cottage—indeed, I have 
scarcely thought of anything else, since I knew that she must 
die. A strange child,” he continued; “she seems to feel nei- 


THE WILDERMINGS. 55 


ther love of life nor fear of death, nor does she either weep or 
smile; and though I have been with her much of late, I have 
never seen her sleep. She suffers no pain—her face wears the 
same calm expression, but her melancholy eyes are wide open 
all the time.” 

The second evening after this, though not quite recovered 
myself, I called at the cottage, in the hope of being of some 
service to the sick girl. The snowy curtain was dropped over 
the window of her chamber, the sash partly raised, and all 
within still—very still. The door was a little way open, and, 
pausing, I heard from within a low, stifled moan, which I could 
not misunderstand, and pushing the door aside, I entered, with- 
out rapping. 

In the white sheet, drawn straight over the head and the feet, 
I recognised at once the fearful truth—the little girl was dead. 
By the head of the bed, and still as one stricken into stone, sat 
the person I so often wished to see. The room was nearly 
dark, and his face was buried in his hands—nevertheless, I knew 
him—it was he who had passed me on the bridge. 

Presently the housekeeper, or one that I took to be her, en- 
tered, and whispering to him, he arose and went out, so that I 
saw him but imperfectly. When he was gone, the woman 
folded the covering away from the face, and to my horror I saw 
that the eyes were still unclosed. Seeing my surprise, she 
said, as she folded a napkin, and pinned it close over the lids— 

“Tt is strange, but the child would never in life close her 
eyes—her mother, they say, died in watching for one who 
never came, and the baby was watchful and sleepless from the 
first.” 

The next day, and the next, it was dull and rainy—excite- 
ment and premature exposure had induced a return of my first 
indisposition, so that 1 was not at the funeral. I saw, however, 
from my window, preparations for the burial—to my surprise, 
in the lonesome little graveyard by the woods. 

In the course of a fortnight, I prepared for a visit of condo- 
lence to the cottage, but on reaching it, found the inhabitants 
gone—the place still and empty. 

Returning, I stopped at the haunted ground: close by the 


56 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


grave of Mary Wildermings was that of the stranger child. 
The briers and thistles had been carefully cut away, there was 
no slab and no name over either, but the blue and white vio- 
lets were planted thickly about both. That they slept well, 
was all I knew 


THE MOODS OF SETH MILFORD AND HIS SISTERS. 57 


THE MOODS OF SETH MILFORD AND aie 
SISTERS. 


Tux mists hung red along the blue basement of the October 
sky, and now and then was heard the uncertain, impatient twit- 
ter of some wild bird, that lingered behind its fellows, for the 
last flocks had flown over the hills and faded off in the distance, 
like clouds. The woods, not yet withered from their autumn 
splendor, were beautiful exceedingly. The winds, crying for 
the lost summer, ran along the tops of the long reaches of ma- 
ples, breaking their shivering wilderness of leaves into golden 
furrows—low hedges of the rat glossy-leaved gum trees, ran in 
among the forks of the hills, and the brown, shaggy vines of 
the wild grape, full of black clusters, sleebered about the sas- 
safras and elm, and the oak still towered in green magnifi- 
cence. 

The sun grew larger and larger, and went down, and gradually 
the evening fell, with its solemn calm, over all the scene. Even- 
ing, in autumn ! 

To most minds, the autumn is a melancholy time, sweeping 
off the light and beauty from the summer, and leaving the 
world, like Eden when the Fall swept thence the light, and the 
dews of sorrow blotted out the footsteps of the angels. 

In a stubble field, high and flat, bordered on two sides with 
thick woods, on one by an open meadow, from which, just now, 
the cows were wending their way slowly homeward, and on 
the other, commanding a view of the homestead and the road, 
Seth Milford was ploughing. 

The air was all fragrant with the smell of fresh earth, as fur- 
row after furrow crumbled off, and the weary and jaded horses 

9% 


58 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


steadily walked backward and forward across the field, in obe- 
dience to the hand of their master. 4 

Twilight fell deeper and darker, and the silver ring of the 
new moon was seen just over the western tree-tops, when Seth 
paused at the edge of the field nearest the house, drew the 
plough from the furrow on to the narrow border of grass that 
edged the stubble, loosened the traces, and winding the long 
rein about the slender ‘and glossy neck of one of his horses, low- 
ered the bars, and the animals walked slowly homeward alone. 

With arms folded across his bosom, and eyes bent on the 
ground, the young ploughman remained for some time listlessly 
leaning against the fence; and it was not until his good steeds, 
having reached the next bars and found themselves unable to pro- 
ceed further, had once or twice neighed impatiently, that his 
reverie, whatever its nature, was interrupted. Drawing his 
rough boots backward and forward over the long and fallen 
grass, by way of cleansing them of the moist earth that attached 
to them in the furrows, he refolded his arms, lowered his hat a 
little over his sullen brow, and was proceeding slowly and me- 
chanically homeward, when he was interrupted with the brisk, 
lively salutation of “ How are you, Seth?” He looked up, and 
a smile, half sorrowful, half disdainful, passed across his regu- 
larly handsome features, as though he scarcely knew whether 
most to pity or despise any one who could be happy in this 
world. The recipient of this dubious greeting was a young 
neighboring farmer, with a round, rosy face, indicative of good 
nature and good health, and large gray eyes, and the beginnings 
of a yellowish beard. Cordially shaking the hand of his un- 
social neighbor, he apologized, a little bluntly, for crossing 
without liberty his fields ; for it must be owned, that Seth Mil- 
ford had, either justly or unjustly, obtained the reputation of 
being a little selfish and particular as to who trespassed on his 
premises. The young man was evidently arrayed in his best; 
and whether the fashion of his garments was such as obtained 
in the gay world or not, mattered to him very little. He was 
going, he said, the distance of a mile or so, to “sit up with a 
corpse,” and the direction he had taken materially shortened the 
way. 


THE MOODS OF SETH MILFORD AND HIS SISTERS. 59 


“Who is dead 2?” inquired Seth, manifesting for the first time 
a little interest. ‘“ Humph!” he continued, on learning who it 
was; “he was a young man—must have been younger than 
I—and yet has been so blest as to die.” 

“Yes,” said the happy farmer, without understanding or ap- 
parently heeding the conclusion of the remark ; “yes, he was 
young; if he had lived till the twenty-second of January, he 
would have been his own man. Good evening.” 

Seth looked after the young watcher, and —— half aloud, 
as he turned homeward,— 


‘‘Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste 
Brought Death into the world, and all our woes.” 


It seems, sometimes, as if we were but drifted here and there, 
by blind chances, to perish, at last, like the flowers; and this 
especially seems true, when, after striving earnestly but vainly 
to pierce the darkness which lies between the farthest stretch of 
imagination, and the eternal brightness about God, our thoughts 
come back to our poor mortal being. Else it seems that we 
were predestined from eternity to fill a certain round, from 
which there is no escape; and, sick at heart, we turn from each 
lofty endeavor. We have too little of the child’s faith—too 
little of simple and trustful reliance on “our Father.” 


“The good are never fatalists— 
The bad alone act by necessity,” 


the poet says. There are some, however, not bad, who, partly 
owing to an unhealthy temperament—moody and sravbislashe 
partly to the continually fretful contrasts of high aspirations and 
inadequate powers, in the end believe in a blind fate, 

One of this unfortunate class was Seth Milford. Born and 
bred on the farm which he now inherited, and having never 
been beyond the shadows of his native hills, he had neverthe- 
less “immortal longings in him.” — Naturally diffident and shy, 
and very imperfectly educated, he grew up to manhood, dissat- 
isfied, restless, wretched—despising and scorning the circle to 


60 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


which by habit and manner he belonged, and consciously fitted 
for no other, though gifted with a mind superior to that of 
thousands occupying high places in society, and looking down 
upon him, He was not loved—even by his two sisters, with 
whom he lived in the old homestead, and whom he supported, 
not very elegantly, indeed, but according to his best ability. He 
would have done better, but it was his fate to be as he was, and 
to do no more than he did. ? 

These sisters—Mary and Annie—better educated, and with 
more of tact and ambition than he, had by various means suc- 
ceeded in elevating themselves considerably, as they thought, 
above their awkward and ill-natured brother. 

Seth was sensitively alive to their want of affection—to the 
mortifying truth that they were sometimes ashamed of him, 
and consequently made little effort towards their maintenance 
in such style as they desired. When the spring time came 
round, he scattered the seed with a listless hand; and when the 
suns of summer ripened the harvest, he gathered it instinctively 
in, but with no pious song—no thought of ampler threshing- 
~ floors. 

It was a wise rule among the Jesuits, that would not permit 
of two persons talking apart; and if these sisters had strictly 
kept such a rule, how much happiness would have been gained, 
how much misery avoided ! 

They complained, and with a good deal of justice, of their 
brother’s improvident and thriftless way of living; and by 
dwelling on it often, and exaggerating real evils, a feeling of 
indifference grew up against him, which he, on his part, made 
no effort to break down. They seldom met, save at meals, 
usually scanty enough, and then in silence. 

The grounds comprising the farm were extensive and yal- 
uable, but sadly neglected and unprofitable. Patches of 
briers grew about the meadows, and the fences were so decayed 
and fallen, that all the unruly pigs and cattle of the neighbor- 
hood trespassed at will. Even the homestead, which had 
originally had pretensions to gentility, now looked as if 


‘A merry place it was in days of yore, 
But something ailed it now; the house was cursed.” 


THE MOODS OF SETH MILFORD AND HIS SISTERS. 61 


The paint was beaten from the weatherboards, some of the 
chimneys were toppling, the shutters broken, and the railings 
about the piazza half gone. The fence around the yard, in spite 
of the props here and there, leaned one way and the other 
towards the ground, and the front gate was quite off its hinges; 
nevertheless, the flower-beds on either side the grass-grown 
walk, and the snowy curtains at such of the windows as had un- 
closed shutters, indicated that the place was inhabited—while 
the great blue cloud of smoke, issuing just now from the kitchen 
chimney, gave the place an unusually cheerful and home-like 
aspect. 

Mary was preparing the tea, bustling in and out, and up and 
down the cellar—singing as she did so—and Annie was gone to 
milk, for they lived humbly. Though, for the most part, the 
brother and sisters went on in the silent unsympathizing manner 
I have described, there were times when mutual good nature 
melted away the ice between them, and an evening or a morn- 
ing passed pleasantly. 

“ Now tell us what hath chanced to-day, that Ceesar looks so 
sad,” said Annie Milford, gaily, to Seth, as he came near where 
she sat by the little spotted cow. Without heeding the gay 
salutation, he threw open the gate, and, neglecting to slip his 
hand through the bridle rein, as he should have done, he suf- 
fered his horse to pass on in what direction he chose, and that 
was so close to the little cow as to make her whirl suddenly 
round, and thus upset the milk over the clean dress of Annie. 
She was, however, in too pleasant a mood to be seriously vexed, 
and called after Seth, saying—“ Just stop, and see the ruin you 
have wrought—when I was thinking, too, what color would best 
suit my complexion.” 

The young man passed on moodily without answering, and 
seemingly without heeding her raillery; but a kind word is 
never lost, and, affecting to busy himself, he waited till Annie’s 
pail was again flowing, when, passing as by accident, he took it 
from her hand and carried it into the house. 

“| think the air feels like rain,” said Annie, as she took the 
milk to strain, and Seth replied that he thought so too; and 
this was the first time he had spoken to her that day. 


62 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


By the time Seth had washed his face and hands in the tir 
basin that always stood on the stone step at the door, and 
Annie had strained the milk, and washed and turned down her 
bright tin pail by the well-curb, the tea was ready, and though 
the girls had made the most of a scanty larder, the board was 
less substantially spread than suited the requirements of a hun- 
gry man. 

“ Well, Seth,” said Mary, as she added the spoonful of sugar 
to his cup of tea, which he liked to be sweet, “I gave away all 
your old boots to-day, to Captain Hill, who wanted them to 
smoke under the nose of a consumptive colt.” Seth could not 
help laughing, though he tried hard to do so; and drawing 
nearer to the table, he began to eat his supper, which he at first 
manifested no disposition to do. 

“He staid a good while with us,” continued Mary, “and 
amused us very much with anecdotes of early times; relating, 
amongst other things, how, when he retired from the militia 
captaincy, he traded his regimentals for a steer.” 

“Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!” said Seth, as 
he passed his cup to be refilled—a thing he was seldom known 
to do. With light and lively talk of this sort, the supper 
passed—so small a thing turns the current, sends it rippling 
into the sunshine, or moving toward the shade. When the 
meal was finished, Seth took up the market-basket, saying he 
would go into the village and see if he could add anything to 
their stock of provision. 

“Not to-night,” said the sisters, both at once—* you look 
tired—let it be to-morrow, or the next day.” 

But the more they dissuaded him from going, the more he 
was inclined to go—though a week’s scolding could not have 
induced him to do so—and he left the house, saying perhaps he 
should gather a little harmless gossip to enliven the next even- 
ing meal; and his heart and step were lighter than they had 
been for many a day. Lifting the broken gate, to pass out, he 
resolved to stop at the blacksmith’s and order some new hinges, 

‘The tea things were put by, and a little fire blazed cheerfully 
on the hearth, for the evenings were growing chilly. Annie sat 
knitting a sock of gray woollen yarn, beside the little old- 


THE MOODS OF SETH MILFORD AND HIS SISTERS. 68 


fashioned work-table, and Mary was reading from a favorite 
volume, when Seth returned, and, placing his well-filled basket 
on the table, he took up a ham of partly-dried beef, saying, 
“ When I come home to-morrow night, I want some of this 
broiled for supper; and here are some cranberries, too, to be 
stewed.” 

Mary said it should be as he wished, and kindly giving him 
the rocking-chair, they sat together—Annie knitting, Mary 
reading, and Seth rocking backwards and forwards before the 
fire, and occasionally making some comment on the book, till 
the old cock, from the cherry tree by the door, crowed for nine 
o'clock. 

Then, laying the embers together, they talked of various 
plans for future improvements. The paling around the yard 
was to be straightened up and whitewashed, the shrubbery 
trimmed, and new gravel put in the walk. Then the shutters 
were to be mended and painted, a rag carpet which the girls 
had made was to be woven for the dining-room, a boy was to 
be hired to milk the cows and assist about the farm, “and then, 
Seth,” said the girls, “you will have more time for books and 
thought.” : ? 

How bright the future looked to them all, for this strengthen- 
ing of each other’s hands, by interchange of opinions, hopes, 
and fears. How easy of execution seemed all their plans, as 
they retired for the night, pleased with themselves and with 
the world. 

The next day found Seth in the stubble field as before, but 
with a countenance more cheerful, a step more firm and elastic ; 
and now and then, as he stopped for his horse to rest and 
browse from briers on the border of the field, while, taking a 
book from his pocket, he sat down on the grass bank and read, 
he really looked enyiable—lord as he was of the acres around 
him. 

The sky was overcast, and the easterly wind blew chill and 
dreary all day—the leaves fell fast, and drifted to great yellow 
ridges along the woods—the nuts dropped off as a stronger gust 
swept by—the cattle cowered from the blast in the fence 


«64 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


corners and on the sides of the hills—it was gloomy, and un 
comfortable, all the time. 

Having assigned himself a certain task, Seth continued to 
plough, backward and forward, long after the sun was set. But 
it was accomplished at last, and drawing his plough from the 
furrow on to the border of grass as in the preceding evening, he 
loosened the traces, and whistling some fragment of a song, 
walked briskly homeward. When his horse had been cared 
for, he took a bundle of hay under his arm for the little cow, 
but, on going into the yard, he found she was not there, to his 
regret, for it was already growing late, and clouds indicated a 
speedy storm. 

I can soon bring her, thought he—supper will not have to 
wait long; and he hurried towards the meadow. But by the 
time he reached it the darkness was so great he could not see 
far, and so was obliged to walk round and round to discover 
whether she were there. In doing this, he found the fence 
thrown down next the woods, and, thinking she was doubtless 
into them, he continued his search, though the darkness had 
become dense, and the rain was falling steadily and cold. The 
mildness of the morning had induced him to go to the field 
without a coat, so that, though his search was finally successful, 
it was not until he was completely drenched. The provoking 
little cow was milked at last, and the flowing pail carried home 
—and now for a warm fire and supper, thought Seth, as he 
opened the door of the kitchen. But, to his surprise and dis- 
comfort, he found neither. The dining-room was in the same 
desolate and cheerless state, but the parlor was a-glow with 
light and warmth, and the gay chattering of voices announced 
the presence of strangers. Seth’s brow clouded—unhappily, 
the friends of his sisters were not his friends. Belonging for 
the most part to a different grade of society, he neither knew 
them nor cared to know them; and, in the present instance, he 
was certainly in no guise to present himself. There was no 
servant on whom to call fora change of garments—he knew not — 
where to find any himself, and so he sat down in: the cheerless 
kitchen, wet and cold as he was, to wait the departure or retir- 
ing of the guests, as patiently as he could. ‘This situation was 


THE MOODS OF SETH MILFORD AND HIS SISTERS. 65 


very uncomfortable, and his mood was quickly in sympathy. 
He thought over all the wrongs and slights he had ever known 
or suffered—and they were not a few, and exaggerated the 
difficulties and obstacles that beset him, until there seemed no 
hope, no good worth living for. Before him and behind him 
all was very dark. The time appeared insupportably long; 
and, worn out at last, he retired to his room, half-wishing, 
boyishly, that he was dead. 

Irritation and chilliness at first kept him from sleep, and there 
is no more wretched place than a sleepless pillow ; then a violent 
headache supervened, and he wore the long hours by tossing 
and tumbling from one side of his bed to the other. But 
wearied nature gave way at last, and towards morning he fell 
into a broken and dreamy sleep, from which he did not wake 
till the sun was shining broad and bright over the world. His 
head was still aching, dull, and heavy, and his cheeks flushed 
and burning with fever. Half rising, he drew back the curtain 
from the window at the head of his bed, and looked out. His 
faithful dog, Juno, that always slept beneath her master’s win- 
dow, roused from her recumbent posture, and, raising herself 
erect, with her fore-paws on the window sill, looked wistfully at 
him some time, whining and wagging her tail. But he no 
sooner lifted his hands toward her, caressingly, and turned fully 
upon her his dull and heavy eyes, than her feet dropped from 
the window, and, crouching upon the ground as before, she gave 
a melancholy howl. 

“An ill-omen,” said Seth; and he fell back upon his pillow 
and groaned. | 

Meantime the girls had risen, and, finding no fire for the pre- 
paration of breakfast, one of them had gone to the door of her 
brother and, in a harsh tone, called him to get up and kindle it ; 
but he, yet asleep, did not of course either hear or answer. After 
waiting some time, they succeeded, with much difficulty, in 
kindling a fire themselves ; and when at last the breakfast was 
on the table, they sat down to it alone, saying, that if Seth were 
not a mind to get up and make a fire, they were sure they | 
. weuld not call him to eat. 


66 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


In so doing they were not happy, but, on the contrary, very 
unhappy. Nevertheless, they felt this procedure to be a kind 
of duty they owed to their insulted dignity. 

The breakfast was eaten in silence, and the table cleared, and 
yet Seth came not; but, seating themselves before the fire in 
the dining-room, they soon, in recapitulating the events of the 
previous evening, forgot all about him. ‘ 

After an hour or so, the young man came from his chamber, 
and passed through the room where they sat, but neither of the 
sisters looked up, or in any way noticed him, until, hearing him 
in the kitchen, pouring a cup of cold coffee, one of them said, 
“If you had risen when you ought to, you might have had your 
breakfast. As it is, you can go without.” 

“TI don’t want any breakfast,” said Seth. 

“You have grown very meek all at once,” replied the sister 
—and no more was said. 

After dragging himself about for some time, in the perform- 
ance of such little offices as required attention, be felt himself 
obliged to return to his bed, which he did without receiving any 
more notice than before, 

“I wonder if Seth is sick 2” said one of the sisters, when he 
had gone back to his room. | ; 

But the other replied that he generally contrived to make 
it known when he was sick, and the conversation flowed again 
into its lively channel. Sadly jarred their mirthful tones and 
laughter through the sick chamber, as the long hours passed 
drearily from the young farmer. 

Suffering from thirst—for though burning with fever the sick 
man, remembering the harsh’ tone of the morning, delayed to 
call for water—and so, voluntarily adding to his misery, he lay 
tossing about until the day was nearly closed, when his audible 
groans attracted the notice of Annie, who, from having spoken 
harshly in the morning, was perhaps the more sensitively alive 
to the possibility of his needing her attention ; and, putting 
down her work, she went at once to his room. 

Startled and alarmed at the terrible change wrought in a sin- 
gle day and night, she did everything in her power to alleviate 


THE MOODS OF SETH MILFORD AND HIS SISTERS. 67 


his sufferings ; clean linen was speedily brought, and when his 
face and hands had been freely bathed in cold water, and his 
pillows adjusted, he felt better; and Annie left him to prepare 
tea, telling him that when he should have taken a little sleep it 
would be ready, and then she was sure he would be well. But 
the headache, which had been for a moment lulled, returned 
with greater intensity, and the cheeks soon flushed back to a 
hotter fever. ‘Oh, if Seth were only well !” said Mary, as she 
went about the preparation of supper. It was no trouble now 
to make everything as he liked it best. When it was ready, 
and a chair for him set next the fire, she opened the door of his 
room, and called him, saying, “ You don’t know what a nice 
supper we have.” 

“Oh, Mary,” replied Seth, “I shall never eat supper with you 
any more.” 

The words smote on her heart, and, hurrying to his bed, she 
put her arms around his neck, and, weeping like a child, asked 
his forgiveness for all her past neglect, her want of love—ex- 
aggerating her own faults, and magnifying all his kindness, all 
his forbearance—saying, over and over, “Oh, you must get well, 
Seth; you must get well!” 

He smiled faintly, and said his own faults were much greater 
than hers; but if he were well, he might not do any better, and 
his life had been long enough. 


A week went by—the leaves were nearly all gone from the 
trees, and lay in heavy and damp masses, the winds moaned 
about the old homestead very dismally, the sky was clouded, 
and the cold, melancholy rain of autumn, fell all day long. On 
the grass border, at the edge of the stubble field, stood the 
plough just where it had been left a week before, with the yel- 
low rust gathered thickly over the share. ; 

Under the naked locust-trees, in the corner of the village 
grave-yard, there was a heap of fresh earth, and close beside it 
a long narrow mound. 

Peace to the dead and the living! Let not me, frail and 
erring, sit in judgment upon either. 

I have told you, simply, a story of humble sorrows and suf- 


a OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ferings. May it teach you to be kindly considerate to those 
with whom you journey along this pilgrimage to death, and to 
fall not out by the way; for there is no anguish like that which 
comes upon us when we remember a wrong done, and feel our 
utter impotence to lift the pallid forehead out of death, and 
crown it with our sorrow and our love, 


MRS. HILL AND MRS. TROOST. 69 


MRS: HILE AND: MRS, TROOST, 


Ir was just two o’clock of one of the warmest of the July 
afternoons. Mrs, Hill had her dinner all over, had put on her 
clean cap and apron, and was sitting on the north porch, making 
an unbleached cotton shirt for Mr. Peter Hill, who always wore 
unbleached shirts at harvest time. Mrs. Hill was a thrifty 
housewife. She had been pursuing this economical avocation 
for some little time, interrupting herself only at times to “shu!” 
away the flocks of halfgrown chickens that came noisily about 
the door for the crumbs from the table-cloth, when the sudden 
shutting down of a great blue cotton umbrella caused her to 
drop her work, and exclaim— 

“Well, now, Mrs. Troost! who would have thought you ever 
would come to see me!” 

“Why, I have thought a great many times I would come,” 
said the visitor, stamping her little feet—for she was a little 
woman—briskly on the blue flag stones, and then dusting them 
nicely with her white cambric handkerchief, before venturing on 
the snowy floor of Mrs. Hill. And, shaking hands, she added, 
“Jt has been a good while, for I remember when I was here 
last I had my Jane with me—quite a baby then, if you mind— 
and she is three years old now.” 

“Ts it possible?” said Mrs. Hill, untying the bonnet strings 
of her neighbor, who sighed, as she continued, “ Yes, she was 
three along in February ;” and she sighed again, more heavily 
than before, though there was no earthly reason that I know of 
why she should sigh, unless perhaps the flight of time, thus 
brought to mind, suggested the transitory nature of human 
things. 


70 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Mrs. Hill laid the bonnet of Mrs. Troost on her “spare bed,” 
and covered it with a little, pale-blue crape shawl, kept espe- 
cially for like occasions; and, taking from the drawer of the 
bureau a large fan of turkey feathers, she presented it to her 
guest, saying, “ A very warm day, isn’t it ?” 

“‘Oh, dreadful, dreadful ; it seems as hot as a bake oven; and 
I suffer with the heat all summer, more or less. But it’s a 
world of suffering ;” and Mrs. Troost half closed her eyes, as if 
to shut out the terrible reality. 

“ Hay-making requires sunshiny weather, you know; so we 
must put up with it,” said Mrs. Hill; “besides, I can mostly 
find some cool place about the house; I keep my sewing here 
on the porch, and, as I bake my bread or cook my dinner, man- 
age to catch it up sometimes, and so keep from getting over 
heated ; and then, too, I get a good many stitches taken in the 
course of the day.” . 

“This is a nice, cool place—completely curtained with vines,” 
said Mrs. Troost; and she sighed again; “ they must have cost 
you a great deal of pains.” 

“Oh, no—no trouble at all; morning-glories grow them- 
selves; they only require to be planted. I will save seed for 
you this fall, and next summer you can have your porch as 
shady as mine.” 

“And if I do, it would not signify,” said Mrs. Troost; “I 
never get time to sit down from one week’s end to another; 
besides, I never had any luck with vines; some folks have'nt, 
you know.” 

Mrs. Hill was a woman of a short, plethorie habit ; one that 
might be supposed to move about with little agility, and to find 
excessive warmth rather inconvenient ; but she was of a happy, 
cheerful temperament; and when it rained she tucked up her 
skirts, put on thick shoes, and waddled about the same as ever, 
saying to herself, “This will make the grass grow,” or “it will 
bring on the radishes,” or something else equally consolatory. 

Mrs. Troost, on the contrary, was a little thin woman, who 
looked as though she might move about nimbly at any season; 
but, as she herself often said, she was a poor unfortunate crea. 
ture, and pitied herself a great deal, as she was in justice bound 


MRS. HILL AND MRS. TROOST. 71 


to do, for nobody else cared, she said, how much she had to 
bear. : 

They were near neighbors—these good women—but their 
social interchanges of tea-drinking were not of very frequent 
occurrence, for sometimes Mrs. Troost had nothing to wear like 
other folks; sometimes it was too hot, and sometimes it was 
too cold; and then again, nobody wanted to see her, and she 
was sure she didn’t want to go where she wasn’t wanted. 
Moreover, she had such a great barn of a house as no other 
woman ever had to take care of. But in all the neighborhood 
it was called the big house, so Mrs. Troost was in some mea- 
sure compensated for the pains it cost her. It was, however, 
as she said, a barn of a place, with half the rooms unfurnished, 
partly because they had no use for them, and partly because 
they were unable to get furniture. So it stood right in the sun, 
with no shutters, and no trees about it, and Mrs. Troost said 
she didn’t suppose it ever would have. She was always op- 
posed to building it, but she never had her way about anything. 
Nevertheless, some people said Mr. Troost had taken the 
dimensions of his house with his wife’s apron strings—but that 
may have been slander. 

While Mrs. Troost sat sighing over things in general, Mrs. 
Hill sewed on the last button, and shaking the loose threads 
from the completed garment, held it up a moment to take a 
satisfactory view, as it were, and folded it way. 

“Well, did you ever!” said Mrs. Troost; “you have made 
half a shirt, and I have got nothing at all done. My hands 
sweat so I can’t use the needle, and it’s no use to try.” 

“Lay down your work for a little while, and we will walk 
in the garden.” 

So Mrs. Hill threw a towel over her head, and taking a little 
tin basin in her hand, the two went to the garden—Mrs. Troost 
under the shelter of the blue umbrella, which she said was so 
heavy that it was worse than nothing. Beans, radishes, rasp- 
berries, and currants, besides many other things, were there in 
profusion, and Mrs. Troost said everything flourished for Mrs. 
Hill, while her garden was all choked up with weeds. “ And 
you have bees, too—don’t they sting the children, and give you 


72 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


a great deal of trouble? Along in May, I guess it was, Troost 
(Mrs. Troost always called her husband so) bought a hive, or 
rather he traded a calf for one—a nice, likely calf, too, it was— 
and they never did us one bit of good”—and the unhappy 
woman sighed. 

“They do say,” said Mrs, Hill, sympathizingly, “that bees 
won't work for some folks; in case their king dies they are 
very likely to quarrel, and not do well; but we have never had 
any any ill luck with ours; and we er year sold forty dollars 
worth of honey, besides having all we wanted for our own use. 
Did yours die off, or what, Mrs. Troost 2” 

“Why,” said the ill-natured visitor, “my oldest boy got 
stung one day, and, being angry, upset the hive, and I never 
found it out for two or three days; and, sending Troost. to put 
it up in its place, there was nota bee to be found, high or low.” 

“You don’t tell! the obstinate little er codunbed but they 
must be treated kindly, and I have heard of their going off for 
less things.” 

The basin was by this time filled with currants, and they re- 
turned to the house. Mrs. Hill, seating herself on the sill of 
the kitchen door, began to prepare her fruit for tea, while Mrs. 
Troost drew her chair near, saying, “ Did you ever hear about 
William McMicken’s bees ?” 

Mrs. Hill had never heard, and expressing an anxiety to do 
so, was told the following story: 

“ His wife, you know, was she that was Sally May, and it’s 
an old saying—- 


‘To change the name, and not the letter, 
You marry for worse, and not for better.’ 


“Sally was a dressy, extravagant girl; she had her bonnet 
‘done up’ twice a year always, and there was no end to her 
frocks and ribbons and fine things. Her mother indulged her 
in everything; she used to say Sally deserved all she got; that 
she was worth her weight in gold. She used to go everywhere, 
Sally did. There was no big meeting that she was not at, and 
no quilting that she didn’t help to get up.. All the girls went 
to her for the fashions, for she was a good deal in town at her 


MRS. HILL AND MRS. TROOST. 78 


Aunt Hanner’s, and always brought out the new patterns. She 
used to have her sleeves a little bigger than anybody else, you 
remember, and then she wore great stiffners in them—la, me! 
there was no end to her extravagance. 

“She had a changeable silk, yellow and blue, made with a 
surplus front ; and when she wore that, the ground wasn’t good 
enough for her to walk on, so some folks used to say; but I 
never thought Sally was a bit proud or lifted up; and if any- 
body was sick, there was no better-hearted creature than she; 
and then, she was always good-natured as the day was long, 
and would sing all the time at her work. I remember, along 
before she was married, she used to sing one song a great deal, 
beginning 

‘T’ve got a sweetheart with bright black eyes ;’ 


and they said she meant William McMicken by that, and that 
she might not get him after all—for a good many thought they 
would never make a match, their dispositions were so contrary. 
William was of a dreadful quiet turn, and a great home body ; 
and as for being rich, he had nothing to brag of, though he was 
high larnt, and followed the river as clark sometimes.” 

Mrs. Hill had by this time prepared her currants, and Mrs. 
Troost paused from her story while she filled the kettle, and 
attached the towel to the end of the well-sweep, where it waved 
as a signal for Peter to come to supper. 

“ Now, just move your chair a leetle nearer the kitchen door, 
if you please,” said Mrs. Hill, “and I can make up my biscuit, 
and hear you, too.” 

Meantime, coming to the door with some bread-crumbs in 
her hand, she began scattering them on the ground, and calling, 
“ Biddy, biddy, biddy—chicky, chicky, chicky ”—hearing which, 
a whole flock of poultry was about her in a minute; and stoop- 
ing down, she secured one of the fattest, which, an hour after- 
wards, was broiled for supper. 

“ Dear me, how easily you do get along!” said Mrs. Troost. 

And it was some time before she could compose herself suffi- 
ciently to take up the thread of her story. At length, however, 
she began with— 

4 


74 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


“ Well, as I was saying, nobody thought William MeMicken 
would marry Sally May. Poor man, they say he is not like 
himself any more. He may get a dozen wives, but he'll never 
get another Sally. A good wife she made him, for all she was 
such a wild girl. 

“The old man May was opposed to the marriage, and threat- 
ened to turn Sally, his own daughter, out of house and home; 
but she was headstrong, and would marry whom she pleased ; 
and so she did, though she never got a stitch of new clothes, 
nor one thing to keep house with. No; not one single thing 
did her father give her, when she went away, but a hive of bees. 
He was right down ugly, and called her Mrs. McMicken when- 
ever he spoke to her after she was married; but Sally didn’t 
seem to mind it, and took just as good care of the bees as 
though they were worth a thousand dollars. Every day in 
winter she used to feed them—maple-sugar, if she had it; and 
if not, a little Muscovade in a saucer or some old broken dish. 

“But it happened one day that a bee stung her on the hand 
—the right one, I think it was,—and Sally said right away that 
it was a bad sign; and that very night she dreamed tnat she 
went out to feed her bees, and a piece of black crape was tied 
on the hive. She felt that it was a token of death, and told her 
husband so, and she told me and Mrs. Hanks. No, I won’t be 
sure she told Mrs. Hanks, but Mrs. Hanks got to hear it some 
way.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Hill, wiping the tears away with her 
apron, “I really didn’t know, till now, that poor Mrs. McMicken 
was dead.” 

“ Oh, she is not dead,” answered Mrs. Troost, “but as well 
as she ever was, only she feels that she is not long for this 
world.” The painful interest of her story, however, had kept 
her from work, so the afternoon passed without her having ac- 
complished much—she never could work when she went visiting. 

Meantime Mrs. Hill had prepared a delightful supper, with- 
out seeming to give herself the least trouble. Peter came pre- 
cisely at the right moment, and, as he drew a pail of water, 
removed the towel, from the well-sweep, easily and naturally, 
thus saving his wife the trouble. 


MRS. HILL AND MRS. TROOST. 75 


“Troost would never have thought of it,” said his wife ; 
and she finished with an “ Ah, well!” as though ail her tribula- 
tions would be over before long. 

As she partook of the delicious honey, she was reminded of 
her own upset hive, and the crisp-red radishes brought thoughts 
of the weedy garden at home; so that, on the whole, her visit, 
she said, made her perfectly wretched, and she should have no 
heart for a week; nor did the little basket of extra nice fruit, 
which Mrs. Hill presented her as she was about to take leave, 
heighten her spirits in the least. Her great heavy umbrella, 
she said, was burden enough for her. ° 

“But Peter will take you in the carriage,” insisted Mrs, 

Hill. : 
“ No,” said Mrs. Troost, as though charity were offered her; 
“it will be more trouble to get in and out than to walk ”—and 
so she trudged home, saying, “Some folks are born to be 
lucky.” 


"6 ' OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


A RELIC OF THE ANCIENT DAYS. 


Ix the graveyard of Clovernook—for it is a simple rura 
burial place without any poetic name, such as Shade Land, or 
Vale of Rest—there is a high grass-grown mound, and on its 
plain marble slab is inscribed the date of the birth and death 
of one of our revolutionary sires, The epitaph was dictated by 
himself, and though concise and unpretending, for the deceased 
was a decided and punctilious democrat, fails not to mention 
that he enlisted in the regular service at the age of seventeen, 
and remained in it till the conclusion of the war. Not a little 
proud of this distinction was uncle Dale, and he could not bear 
that his friends and relations should have no memorial of it 
when his voice should be for ever silent. I fancy too, that he 
was fain to think the wearied traveller would sometimes stop 
beneath the shadow of the great tree that is above him, and, 
reading the inscription, feel that he gazed on the repository of 
no common dust. Close beside the broad high swell of turf 
beneath which he sleeps, there is a shorter and lower one, co- 
vered with wild roses, but without any headstone at all. 

The leaves of ten autumns have fallen bright about these 
graves, lodging in the brier vines, and filling the hollow that is 
between them, and then fading, and withering to dryness, and 
blowing away on the wind, so that neither children, nor chil- 
dren’s children come any longer with tears, but occasionally the 
long grass is trodden down about them by the one or the other, 
as all his benevolent and generous qualities are talked over 
very calmly, and his self-sacrifices, and heroic actions, proudly 
remembered. Sometimes the roses are gathered from the 


A RELIC OF THE ANCIENT DAYS. 71 


lesser mound, about which nothing is said, and laid upon the 
larger. 

Uncle Dale and three brothers were among the pioneer 
settlers of Clovernook; so that many families in that now 
flourishing hamlet, amongst which our own is one, are either 
intimately or remotely connected with him. That I call him 
“uncle Dale,” does not precisely indicate our relationship, as 
many young persons who knew and loved him, were suffered 
by his genial and sunny disposition to approach him thus 
familiarly. 

As I first remember him, he seemed to me a very old man, 
but to childhood, the full prime of life seems a boundary that 
we may scarcely ever reach, and between us and white hairs 
there is a longer time than we can imagine. 

Let me call up his picture: but I fear I shall not os able to 
make you see him as I see him, for it is one of the most pal- 
pable of my memories, and my pencil, which is not at all gra- 
phic, can never delineate him as I see him through the years. 
On the ivy-shaded porch to the west of our cottage, I have got 
on his knees on many a summer afternoon, listening to stories 
of sudden attacks and defences, defeats and victories, strange 
encounters with wild beasts, huge lights made by prairie fires, 
when the buffalo herds, as they cantered before it, shook the 
earth, making a rumbling sound like that of an earthquake. 
Often Ihave heard him tell of the first night passed in the 
wilderness, where afterward was reared his cabin. A fire was 
kindled against the trunk of a giant tree, the shelving bark of 
which was soon a-blaze to its top, and the red flames creeping 
along the numerous boughs, which together with the live 
‘sparkles dropping below or sweeping in bright trains across the 
winds, illumined all the forest round about. There he and his 
brothers proposed to cast their lines; it could not have seemed 
a very pleasant place to them then, for they had no bed but a 
heap of leaves, and their covering against the cold was very 
scant. They did not dare to sleep without a sentinel, for the 
fear of wild beasts, and of still wilder savages. Once or twice 
indeed they saw the glitter of hungry eyes through the under- 
brush, but whether of man or beast, they could not precisely 


78 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


determine, and so with their sharp knives and loaded muskets 
close at hand, they lay awake, or sat, it may be, the watches 
through, telling stories to the long-drawn howl of the wolf and 
the churlish grow] of the panther. 

The two pairs of young oxen, thin and jaded, which brought 
over the mountains and across the long reach of woods all their 
earthly effects, were turned loose to graze on reaching their 
destination. The spot had been previously selected, but dark- 
ness was over all the world when they arrived, and the owls 
hooting discordantly to the faint moonlight. 

A little clump of wainut trees, crowning the eminence near 
which the proposed cabin was to be erected, had been girdled by 
way of setting a mark on the premises, and the road leading to 
the neighboring fort wound around them in a way not to be 
mistaken. By this means alone the spot was recognised—the 
general aspects of a vast waste of wilderness being very similar, 
and such lines of division as existed, apparent only to the prac- 
tised eye of the hunter. 

The oxen were very tired, and it was not supposed that they 
would stray far from the camp, but, after browsing alittle while 
from the nearest young trees, lie down in the leaves and sleep. 
For a time they were heard treading the underbrush, and 
breaking with their teeth the green limbs of the beech, or the 
tenderer sprays of the elm, but by and by they sank down, and 
nothing was heard but their heavy breathing. 

In the morning, however, one of them was gone, leaving his 
mate useless, and though vigilant search was made in all direc- 
tions, no traces of him were ever discovered. 

I could never imagine uncle Dale a vigorous young man, 
felling trees, building houses, and killing wild beasts. But 
building houses, in those days, was a trifling matter, requiring 
only the bringing together of a few straight saplings, the mix- 
ing of a little clay mortar, (which in their case the old ox did 
for them), and the hewing of a few strong men for eight and 
twenty hours or so. I[ could think of him only an old man with 
thin white hairs, and hands crossed and checked with full blue 
veins, and a complexion of that pallid even hue which seems to 
indicate decay of the physical energies, but which, in his case, 


A RELIC OF THE ANCIENT DAYS. 79 


I know not how to account for, since he was full of vigorous 
life, and young at heart when three score years admonished 
him of the limits of human life: young at heart, and a lover of 
youth, as will be presently shown in the fact of his taking to 
himself at that ripe age a youthful wife. 

He was not for the fashion of these days, but in dress and 
manner belonged to his own generation, Half his character 
was in his dress; his predilection for the buff and blue re- 
mained always, and his last request was, that no paler hue 
might be substituted when the battle of life should be over, 
and peace concluded with the last enemy. ‘The antique style 
of his apparel, never ceased to interest and amuse me: the 
knot of ribbon which ornamented his cocked hat, and the silver 
knee and shoe buckles, to say nothing of the bright buttons 
adorning the blue coat, (the same set were used during half his 
life) and the buff breeches, and the great white silk pocket- 
handkerchief with its border of eagles, served to fill all little 
vacuities of thought, when, resting his check on the gold head of 
his curiously carved cane, he forgot that he had broken off in 
the middle of a story. 

Sometimes on such occasions I would timidly put my hand 
in his pocket, as if to steal his purse, and so recall him from 
his reverie. This purse was of the museum character, having 
been wrought long before by an Indian girl, named Willow- 
Flower, beautiful, as uncle Dale said, and so named for her ex- 
ceeding grace. She had first come to his cabin as a spy, and 
under pretence of offering roots for sale, adroitly possessed her- 
self of articles, not easily replaced in those times, and contrived 
also to leave poison in the way of Warwick, the faithful watch- 
dog. The poor brute refused food, drooped, and whined sor- 
rowful and monotonous for a day or two, and then, after licking 
the hand of his master, went from the cabin and his kennel 
altogether, and digging away the heavy masses of leaves and 
bits of sticks in an obscure part of the woods, made his own 
grave. 

But Willow-Flower became afterwards penitent, and War- 
wick had layers of bright moss above him in a circle of crim- 
son phlox. However, the penitence came not without softening 


80 - OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


influences in two bright silk handkerchiefs; and a fleece of 
wool for the linings of moccasins—for uncle Dale, having’ per- 
ceived the wicked disposition of the maiden, forthwith jour- 
-neyed to Fort Washington, ten full miles, for the purchase of 
trinkets, to offer her by way of antidote. The wool was of his 
own flock, and in all the west, certainly he believed there was 
none so white or fine. ‘The presents were opportune. Willow 
Flower had visited the cabin during the absence of uncle Dale 
and, as appeared by her subsequent confession, not thinking her- 
self equal to a wholesale robbery, conveyed to the lodge of her 
kindred such intelligence that depredation was resolved on for 
the ensuing night. It was near midnight when uncle Dale, who 
had returned at twilight, tired and cold, for it was winter, was 
awakened from sleep by a slight noise at the door. Rising 
partly up, he threw the smouldering embers together, for he 
slept on a bed of skins before the hearth—and the low room 
was soon aglow with light. His apprehensions were presently 
confirmed, not only by the jarring sound caused by footsteps 
close by, but by the sudden darkening of the small uncurtained 
window, as with the quick opening of some great black wing. 
The nature, if not the extent, of the danger, was at once com- 
prehended. Willow-Flower had brought some of her tribe for 
evil purposes ; and it was her black tresses which the gust swept 
across the window, as she listened for some sound from within. 
Any attempt at defence was useless; there might be chances 
of escape or secretion, but of these uncle Dale would not avail 
himself; and, withdrawing from the reach of their arrows, if 
aimed through the pane, he dressed hurriedly, and boldly opened 
the door. This unexpected movement caused some confusion 
among the invaders, six or seven in number, in a close group 
near by, and one or two clubs were suddenly raised. ‘ Wil- 
low-Flower—pretty Willow-Flower!” called uncle Dale, for 
she had learned of the settlers to understand English, and to 
speak it brokenly. He then told her he had dreamed she was 
come, and was glad to find it was not only true, but that she 
had also brought her brothers: he had that day bought a present 
for her, which he begged she would come in and accept. A 
glimpse of the red handkerchiefs completed the conquest; and 


A RELIC OY THE ANCIENT DAYS. 81 


the whole party were soon seated on the skins around the fire, 
whieh cracked and blazed cheerily in the wide, stone fire-place, 
partaking of the bread and meat which uncle Dale set before 
them; and, it may be, of a flagon of whiskey also, though as 
to that Iam not perfectly informed. At daybreak, they harm 
lessly returned, in real or apparent merriment, bearing the 
fleece of wool and the red kerchiefs, uncle Dale having suffered 
in nothing, but instead, having gained six or seven friends. 

When Willow-Flower came again, her hair was bound with 
hemlock, in token of sorrow, and she led by the birchen collar 
a huge black dog of a wolfish aspect, which, alive and strong, 
she said was better than the dead Warwick, whd would never 
growl though a thousand enemies were about the place. She 
came often, thereafter, and the purse, knitted in part of her 
own black tresses, in part of the golden fibres of some bark 
from the forest, was one of her many tokens of friendliness. 
How the pieces of gold, with convenient varieties of silver coin, 
chanced always to be in this purse, I never questioned, and now 
I am certainly unable to divine, for uncle Dale was not a worker, 
nor a prudent economist or wise manager. ‘True, the hundreds 
of acres of the wild land at the time I refer to, was become a 
beautiful and richly cultivated farm, within six miles of which, 
Fort Washington had extended itself, until the country called 
her, for her beauty, the Queen of the West ; and the rude cabin, 
with the door broken off, and the window fallen away, was 
standing still, thick woods all about it, for the county road had 
not been made on the original track over which the oxen brought 
uncle Dale, and consequently the old house was left on the 
farthest verge of the lands; and, with something of the feeling 
one might cherish for a first love, its projector and builder would 
never hear of its removal. It was as much neglected also as 
one’s first love becomes sometimes: between the planks of the 
floor the grass grew up; and neither Willow-Flower nor any 
of her tribe came there any longer. 

Many the stories, like this, told to children by the old men of 
the west. Where else and when, in all the various history of 
the world, have its forest-invading founders been suffered to see 
the meridian glories of a great empire, and in the midst of an- 

4* 


82 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


cient-seeming states, to tell how the earliest seeds of civilization 
were there first planted by their own hands! It is as if the 
curious patrician had been suffered to drive along the Tiber 
from mightiest Rome’s long streets of collonaded palaces, to 
question the still living Silvia of the traditions of kindness by 
Faustulus to her wolf-nursed children. 


HOW UNCLE DALE WAS TROUBLED, 83 


HOW UNCLE DALE WAS TROUBLED. 


Or that aristocracy whose right to live above other people and 
by means of other people, no body ever questions, Uncle Dale 
glided smoothly along, and in some noiseless undefinable way 
his necessities were all supplied ; whether there were pressures 
in the money market or not was all the same to him; the cu- 
rious purse described in the preceding chapter, contained about 
the same amount from one year to another. 

Along the western line of the Dale farm, lies the silver dust 
of the broad and even turnpike, and near it, with a few trees 
intervening, and crowning two neighboring eminences, stand 
two beautiful mansions, embracing not only every degree of 
rural comfort, but many of the refined elegances of more luxu- 
rious life. There live John and Joseph Dale, sons of the old 
soldier of whom I have been writing. There they live, now 
that they inherit the estate, reaping the harvest in peace which 
was sown long ago amid perils and difficulties. But they also 
lived here, reaping the same advantages, while the father was 
yet in the world. His home was sometimes beneath one roof, 
sometimes beneath the other; but an old man is not always 
petted and caressed, either by children who have grown up to 
think their own ways best, or by grandchildren, who are sure to 
think a father in the right, and a grandfather in the wrong, when 
there is disagreement. 

And so it chanced at times—not often, I hope—that clouds 
came over the sunshine of Uncle Dale’s life; and with one hand 
on the head of his cane, and the other folded over that, and his 
chin resting on both, he would sit for hours, silent, thoughtful— 


84 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


his brow furrowed, and his lips compressed. One of these oc. 
casions I shall never forget. Mrs. Joseph Dale had left him to 
rock the cradle: for why could not grandfather tend it just as 
easily as not? She had left to him this duty while she should 
perform another, which country housewifes sometimes impose 
on themselves, an unpleasant one, I fancy, even with no baby, 
asleep in the cradle ; it was nothing less than the yearly pick- 
ing of seventeen geese, and, perhaps, one or two ducks. The 
good woman had been bred to habits of economy, and having 
grown away from necessity, adhered nevertheless to primitive 
customs. Her dozen beds were stuffed already to hardness with 
feathers, but that mattered not—she would have thought as soon 
of dispensing with her extra fine blue and red wool coverlids 
with which all the chamber closets were heaped, and which 
were only taken down about the tenth of July to garnish the 
garden-fence and receive the benefit of sun and air, as with the 
seventeen geese and two or three ducks. But passing these 
peculiarities : herself, and the man servant, and the maid ser- 
vant, with the larger children, more or less, had succeeded, after 
many crosses and drivings hither and thither, in lodging the 
gabblers conveniently in ,the vacant. room of an out-building, 
denominated by common usage the goose-room, and clad in 
an old-fashioned gown, used by her mother before her for a 
similar purpose, and with her heavy brown hair ungracefully 
wound beneath a closely-fitting cap of white muslin, -Mrs. 
Joseph Dale had but well commenced the picking, when the 
cries of the baby aroused her motherly sympathies. For a 
time she continued her work, trusting to the careful rocking of 
grandfather—afterwards to the lulling influences of his gentle 
talk and vibratory tossings—but all would not do: louder and 
louder came the voice, till the angry mother, tossed from her 
lap the gray goose whose neck had only in part been divested 
' of its graceful plumes, exclaiming, “Grandfather, I suppose, 
means to let the baby ery itself to death!” 

A moment after, she presented herself—her eyebrows full of 
down, and a white fringe hanging all around the edges of her 
hair ; and taking the baby from his arms, in silence, bestowed on 
the good old man a look that might have struck terror to a regi- 


HOW UNCLE DALE WAS TROUBLED. 85 


‘ment, as he tried to apologise, by saying he was not worth much 
any more—that he had fallen asleep at his task, and the mis- 
chief had occurred in consequence. ‘So it seems,” replied the 
daughter-in-law, no wise softened—and added something about 
its being seldom enough he was asked to do anything; which, 
though he but imperfectly heard it, caused him to twist the rim 
of his hat to a more angular shape, before adjusting it for a 
walk to his other home, which he performed in a manner erect 
and stately, as though neither gout nor rheumatism had ever 
_ made his acquaintance. 

The dinner at both houses was usually served punctually at 
the moment when the sunshine, streaming straight in at the 
south door, indicated the noon, but to-day there had been a little 
variation—Mrs. Joseph Dale had delayed dinner in consequence 
of her occupation, and Mrs. John Dale had served hers already 
in consequence of a proposed visit. 

Uncle Dale was fond of his dinner, and a prospect of fast- 
ing till tea time, was not calculated to smooth down his turbu- 
lence of spirit. After a brief salutation he seated himself, and 
moodily leaning his head on his cane, as his fashion was when 
his equanimity had been in any way ruffled, remained silent, 
thinking that Mrs. John Dale must know he had not dined, and 
did not wish to give herself trouble on his account. 

In another temper he would have stated his necessities ; but 
to-day he expected them to be anticipated; he was, he felt, at 
best but a useless and troublesome old man, whom nobody 
wanted to be burdened with, and as he occasionally lifted up 
his eyes he glanced toward the graveyard, half wishing he 
already filled the little space which would presently be allotted 
to him. 

Meantime, Mrs. John Dale, seemingly unconscious of his 
presence, was busily preparing for “ gotig abroad,”. as_ the 
passing an afternoon with a relation and neighbor was described. 
Very smart and tidy she looked in her new gingham and black 
silk apron, and cap with the crimped ruffle and blue ribbon ; 
and as, with a little parcel of visiting work in her hand, (stuff 
for making two table-cloths and a sheet), she got out precisely 
as the clock from the mantle struck one, Uncle Dale smiled; 


86 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


perhaps he thought there were other women in the world who 
looked as well as she; but he may have smiled for the plen- 
teous harvest, or for any of a thousand other things. Affec- 
tionate as Mrs. John Dale generally was, she had to-day made 
no apology for leaving home—perhaps that her father-in-law 
seemed engrossed with his own thoughts; and he, on his part 
had declined telling her that her sister-in-law was not in trim 
for receiving visitors, for that she had not informed him of. her 
intentions. Changing his position a little to ascertain whether 
he had divined aright, he found that, just as he expected, she 
turned to the south, passed across the hollow over the bridge, 
ascended the hill, and opening the little gate made especially 
for visitors, entered the domicile of Joseph, whose wife, with 
the down in her eyebrows and about her hair, sat vainly en- 
deavoring to rock to sleep the most sleepless child in the world. 
How inopportune! thought uncle Dale; I could have told her 
so. But he was mistaken, as was quickly evident from the sur- 
prised lady’s laughter. A little gay chatting, and she took up 
the baby, while the sister arranged herself in more seemly 
guise; the geese were released, and marched in procession to 
the brook; and Nancy, the maid, appeared on the porch before 
the kitchen, beating eggs. All signs seemed propitious of a 
most enjoyable afternoon. 

This was all vexing to the old man, who, alone and hungry, 
sat within view—nothing, he felt, done for his pleasure or ac- 
commodation, then, or ever; for one little slight leads to exag- 
geration of all the slights and mischances of life. 

After a while he grew weary of his own thoughts, and for the 
want of other occupation, or led by the regretful nature of his 
reflections, strolled away toward the long deserted cabin. At 
first he sighed heavily, seeing how the birds had built their nests 
among the loose stones of the chimney, how the roof had fallen 
away, and the rain beaten through the chinks, how the floor 
was decayed, and the mildew creeping along the walls. Then he 
began to think how it might be restored—a few shingles, a 
little repairing about the chimney and hearth, some new floor- 
ing, a little plaster and whitewash, with the resetting of the 
glass, would completely renovate the house, make it as good as 


HOW UNCLE DALE WAS TROUBLED. 87 


new, and in fact better. Why should it not be done? only the 
labors of a strong man for a day or two, and a trifling expendi- 
ture, were needed, in fact, he believed he could well nigh 
perform the whole task himself; and putting his cane aside, 
and throwing off his blue coat, with the energy and earnest- 
ness of twenty, he began heaping loose stones together, and 
tearing out the floor as though the restoration of the old house 
were a foregone conclusion, and he himself the architect and 
mason, carpenter and glazier. His energies were soon ex- 
hausted, however, for at sixty a man may not handle timbers 
and stones as with the weight of forty less years upon him, 
and at the spur of another resolution he ceased to work, as sud- 
-denly as he had commenced. But his face, so far from ex- 
pressing regret, was full of light and satisfaction, and as he 
briskly retraced his steps toward the house of his son, he looked 
twenty years younger than when he left it. 

During the long afternoon, while Mrs. John Dale wrought at 
her table cloths and sheet, and Mrs. Joseph Dale sewed 
together six great sacks for carrying wheat to the mill, they 
naturally enough disclosed to each other their little trials, 
many of which hinged upon the oddities and coming childish- 
ness of the old man. Of course, neither wanted to say any- 
thing unkind, nor would she, for the world; and yet when the 
conversation had been repeatedly broken off, one or the other 
would renew it by saying, “I must tell you of another thing 
which to me is a great vexation ;” whereupon followed some 
little complaint—perhaps that grandfather would pass his cup 
for more sugar in his tea—perhaps that he monopolized the 
talk when visitors were present, or perhaps that he was stirring 
too early in the morning. 

True, Uncle Dale heard none of these things, but he felt in- 
stinctively that they were likely to be said, and so they contri- 
buted to his growing discomfort. 


88 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


THE OLD MAN’S WOOING AND HIS WIDOW. 


Wuen Mrs. John Dale returned home, at sunset, she found 
that “Grandfather,” as she called uncle Dale, was not there. 
All the members of the family were inquired of concerning him, 
and it was at length ascertained that he had been last seen climb- 
ing into the stage coach, but nothing further could be learned. 
A week went by—ten days—two weeks—a month—when, one 
evening, in the coach which took him away, in excellent health 
and spirits, and dressed with more than his usual precision, Un- 
cle Dale returned. The two families felt as if some conspiracy 
had been forming, and his reception was a little dubious, though 
evidently there was an effort to seem pleased. More than or- 
dinary pains were taken for his satisfaction, but the politeness 
was too formal, and the constraint was apparent. 

When the workmen commenced repairing the cabin, no one 
asked familiarly what he proposed to do; and when the chil- 
dren climbed on his knees and teased about his intentions, they 
were hushed and told they were quite too heavy for him, _ 

This was not for any lack of curiosity ; why should it be 
so? certainly Uncle Dale had manifested no such interest for 
years, as he did now in the restoration of the old house, assist- 
ing, every day, himself, till all was complete, though for a long 
time previously, he had been unused to any toil. 

When it was done, he felicitated himself greatly on the cosy, 
comfortable look it presented, but no one noticed or added any- 
thing to his felicity ; indeed there seemed an unconsciousness of 
his movements, and even when he said it would look much 
better when he should get the furniture home, there was still 
the same apparent indifference. 


THE OLD MAN’S WOOING AND HIS WIDOW. 89 


This silence made him visibly uneasy; he was desirous of 
being questioned ; yet no one embraced the frequent oppor 
tunities he gave for the purpose. In vain he said that John and 
Joseph might have their big houses in welcome, and that he 
would rather live in the old cabin than with either of them. At 
length he became restlessly dissatisfied, sitting sometimes for 
hours with his head resting on his cane, without speaking ; at 
other times going from John’s to Joseph’s, and from Joseph’s 
to John’s, half a dozen times during the day. Neither of his 
sons, however, opened the way for what he wished to com- 
municate. 

One morning as John was climbing into the wagon, with a 
design of going to Clovernook on some little errand, (he always 
harnessed two horses for the bringing home of six pounds of 
sugar or a fresh cheese,) Uncle Dale said, in a sort of flurried 
accent, ‘Can you aa your team to me for an hour or two to- 
day, John ?” 

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” he answered ; “ but what do you 
want to do?” : 

“ Nothing much,” was the reply ; “I thought of moving my 
few effects out of your wife’s way—that’s all.” 

“ Humph!” said John, drawing the reins so tight that the 
horses pushed the wagon back, crushing a beautiful young tree ; 
“where do you propose to move 2?” 

“Into the cabin, to be’sure: it’s good enough for me.” 

“ But how do you intend to live ?—not alone 2?” 

“‘ No, certainly not; I shall need a nurse and housekeeper, 
and I have an exellent young woman engaged who will com- 
bine both qualities.” 

“The deuce you have!” exclaimed John, bringing down his 
whip in a way that sent the horses bviskly forward, and in a 
few moments he was out of view, leaving Uncle Dale in a state 
of troubled bewilderment. During the day, however, he man- 
aged to communicate definitely his intentions ; he was going to 
be married, and to a pretty young woman of twenty-five. He 
enlarged of course on her beauty and many amiable qualities ; 
but there seemed something he would fain say, which he did 
not; for, many times, after speaking of an excellent trait, he 


90 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


would say “but,” or, in the use of some other doubtful dis- 
junctive, convey the idea of something connected with his pro- 
posed marriage, not altogether pleasant to think about, 

Rejuvenated as much as might be, but without hearing any 
“God speed you,” he set out in the evening coach on the bridal 
expedition. Then it was that the tongues so silent before, 
found utterance, 

Mrs. John Dale and Mrs. Joseph Dale, exchanged little visits 
daily, at which a thousand comments were made, and a thou- 
sand speculations indulged in reference to the new phase of 
things. They were not only displeased, but in fact outraged. 
~ An unwarrantably foolish thing was about to be done, and that 
too, without their having been in the least degree consulted ; 
but all the anxiety and suspense, and gossip, must be passed 
over, or left to the reader’s fancy. Little preparation was 
made in either house for the entertainment of the bride; Mrs. 
John Dale thought probably the first visit would be to Mrs. 
Joseph Dale’s, and Mrs. Joseph Dale thought likely the first 
visit would be to Mrs. John Dale’s. So they excused them- 
selves. At any rate, a cup of tea and a piece of bread and 
butter were all the old man wanted, and as for the young wife, 
why, nobody was going to give themselves trouble for her, 

Uncle Dale had been absent two or three weeks when, one 
evening, as the family of John were seated around the supper 
table, one of the children came breathlessly in, saying, that 
grandfather had come, and brought a woman and a little girl 
with him. Neither son nor son’s wife went forth to relieve 
him of any embarrassment; and, indeed, I think he would have 
preferred to encounter a British regiment forty years before, to 
facing the little party now before him, and presenting his wife 
to them. There was no alternative however, and the ceremony 
was gone through with awkwardly enough, and the little blue- 
eyed trembling girl dropt into the most out-of-the-way place she 
saw, and taking on her lap the little girl brought with her—five 
years old, perhaps, with a pale face and dark mournful eyes— 
she smoothed the black hair from her forehead, and remained 
silent. 

There was nothing of the bridish appearance in the young 


ae . be eo ee 


THE OLD MAN’S WOOINGS AND HIS WIDOW. 91 


wife, against which Mrs. Dale had set her heart; on the con- 
trary, her dress was a mourning one, and simply, it may be a 
little old-fashionedly made. White frills about the wrists, and 
fitting close to the neck, relieved the otherwise sombre effect, 
for she wore no ornament but a wealth of luxuriant chestnut 
hair, which, though put plainly away, lay inwavy masses along 
the brow, that was white, and shaded with sorrow. 

In spite of her resolved obduracy, Mrs. Dale was slightly 
softened, obviously so, when the moisture gathered to the eyes 
of the young wife, though she endeavored to conceal it; and 
more so when the dark-eyed little girl, putting her arms around 
her neck,’ said softly, “ Mother, what makes you cry y? 

A flush of crimson mounted to the face of the young mother, 
and the tears, held back till then, dropped heavily one by one 
on the head of the girl, who, leaning against her bosom, pre- 
sently fell asleep. 

Uncle Dale turned away and said something hurriedly about 
the sunset; and the children came about his knees saying, 
“ Who is she, grandfather?” and “‘ What makes her ery ee 

Without answering the last question, Uncle Dale said he had 
brought them a new aunt; they must call her Aunt Polly: so 
it soon became a natural and familiar thing to say grandfather 
and Aunt Polly, for Mrs. Dale caught the instruction conveyed 
to the children, and with a woman’s tact said Aunt Polly too. 

I remember of visiting them after they were domiciled in 
the cabin; how comfortable and homelike it all was—the 
bright rag carpet on the floor—the small and plain table on 
which lay the Bible and hymn-book—the cupboard with its 
open doors, where the china and britannia were wisely set for 
show—and Uncle Dale’s cushioned chair—I can see it all 
before me as plainly as I see the appointments of my own 
room. And Uncle Dale and Aunt Polly—I can see them, just 
as they used to look—she, meek, and gentle, and devoted, for 
she was of a quiet nature, and had the kindest heart I ever 
knew, engaged with knitting or sewing, or in the performance 
of some household duty, while Uncle Dale sat by the door, or 
at the fireside, as the season might be, reading aloud from the 
newspaper, or telling stories of olden times. 


—— 


92 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Aunt Polly was not mentally gifted; in truth, she could not 
fathom half her husband said to her; but her reverential love 
prompted the liveliest and most implicit obedience to his 

wishes ; and they glided smoothly, and I think happily along. 
_ Mrs. Joseph Dale, and Mrs. John Dale, became measurably 
reconciled to the new order of things, and to the young wife, 
for she won upon all hearts, and though they sometimes said 
she was not much like grandmother, (whom they had never 
seen) they supposed they ought not to complain—and surely 
there was no reason why they should do so. 

But for the little girl there was no kind word ; no pet 
names; they had little children too, but they didnot like her 
to play with them. This was the felt if not the expressed 
understanding, and the child wandered lonesomely about the 
woods, or sat by the brookside in the sun all day, till the sum- 
mer was faded, and the autumn gone, and the winter whitening 
all the hills. Then it was that, digging down through the snow 
they made her a grave, and she needed no playmates nor kind 
words thenceforward. When the spring came round, the violets 
sprung up at her head and her feet, and quite overrun the little 
yellow heap of earth that was above her, blooming and blos- 
soming as brightly as over the heir of a hundred kings—she 
had never other monument. 

In the little white-washed cabin the widowed wife yet lives, 
training the roses at the windows, and keeping all things just as 
“grandfather” liked to have them when he sat in the great arm 
chair, telling her stories of battles and pioneer life: all things 
that were his, are held sacred; the bridal dress is hung care- 
fully aside, and she wears it only when she visits the two graves 
under the locust. But the mourning has never been changed 
—never will be, I think, and the look of patient meekness she 
wears still, only with more of sorrow in it. She is “Aunt 
Polly” to every body, and all love and respect her. 


DEACON WHITFIELD’S FOLKS. : 93 


DEACON WHITFIELD’S FOLKS. 


I snovutp very imperfectly fulfil the duty I have undertaken 
of sketching the various society of Clovernook, if I omitted al- 
together some notices of ecclesiastical affairs, which constitute 
so interesting and important a portion of all history. So I 
shall here devote a chapter to the dignitaries of our church, which, 
like. establishments in greater scenes, has had its share of vicis- 
situdes, , 

It was the time of the full moon of the harvest—winrows of 
sweet-smelling hay ridged the meadows, and the golden waves 
of the wheat fields rose and fell as the winds ran in and out. 
The flocks, shorn of their heavy fleeces, and scarcely yet accus- 
tomed to their new state, bleated along the hill sides, while the 
heifers buried their sleek flanks in great beds of clover, and the 
oxen, to me ever patient and beautiful, bowed their necks to the 
yoke, for the ingathering of the dry hay and the bound sheaves ; 


‘¢ The steer forgot to graze, 
And, where the hedgerow cuts the pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighboring field, 
And lowing to his fellows.” 


But though it was the time of harvest, and of-a plenteous har- 
vest, there was no great deal of joy in the family of Deacon 
Whitfield. The possessor of an ample fortune, he neither en- 
joyed it himself, nor suffered his family to do so. This way of 
managing affairs was perfectly consonant to the feelings of Mrs. 
Whitfield ; and, sick or well, day after day she wrought on, like 
a suffering martyr, without any thought of shifting the burden 


94 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


which, as a part of her destiny, she meekly accepted; but the 
children were sometimes sadly rebellious. There was never 
rest nor respite from labor; if they grew tired of one thing, 
they were told to do another, and that would be rest enough. 
Sundays, there was no work, it is true, but there was no play. 
The Pilgrim’s Progress, Baxter’s Saint’s Everlasting Rest, and 
one or two other volumes, comprised the Deacon’s library, and 
were supposed to be sufficiently interesting for all times and 
seasons. The same coats, hats, and dresses, were expected to 
serve, and did serve, for two or three years. Now, most per- 
sons feel uncomfortable when they are conscious of looking so 
peculiar in any way as to make them the pointed objects of ob- 
servation. But the Deacon was singularly free from this weak- 
ness ; and when sometimes Mrs. Whitfield ventured to suggest, 
in a gentle way, that his outer.man required to be renewed, he 
invariably replied, that his father never had so fine a suit as was 
his, and that what was good enough for his father, was good 
enough for himself: and so the good woman was silent, if not 
convinced. 

The same articles of furniture, few and simple, with which 
they originally commenced housekeeping, served still, and were, 
in fact, as the Deacon said, though the oldest son was now 
twenty, good as new. Only one innovation had been made, in 
the purchase of a fashionable sofa, which, in the midst of its 
slender and old-fashioned associates, looked sadly out of place 
—a sort of “jewel in an Ethiop’s ear.” It was a great sur- 
prise—a shock, as it were—to the family, when the Deacon an- 
nounced his intention of buying it. The dairy had become 
overstocked, it was becoming late in the season, and the cows, 
the Deacon said, would eat their own heads off before spring, 
and he should just turn two of them into a sofa “for your 
mother here ”—conveying the startling intelligence rather to the 
children than to the wife. 

“What, father! did you say a sofa?” said Sally Whitfield, 
letting her knitting drop in her lap. 

“Yes, I said so; a sofa for your mother here,” he replied. 

“Mother don’t want any sofa,” said Mrs. Whitfield, turning 
away and wiping the tears from her eyes; for such considerate 


DEACON WHITFIELD’S FOLKS. 95 


kindness, on the part of her husband, quite melted her heart, 
“ What could have put that into your head, Samuel 2?” 

“T guess father has tapped the wrong cider barrel,” said Jerry 
Whitfield to his sister, in a low tone; but his mother caught it, 
low as it was, and turning upon him her serious, rebuking coun- 
tenance, she said, simply, “Jeremiah Whitfield!” There was 
no need that she should say more. 

All men have generous moods sometimes, and Deacon Whit- 
field had his, though they occurred but once in twenty years or 
so. And a few days after this little conversation, he mounted 
his market wagon, dressed in his Sunday’s best, and proceeded 
staidly and soberly to town, while Jerry followed behind, driving 
- two cows. 

But at the opening of our story, it was, as I have said, har- 
vest-time at the Deacon’s, and there was a sort of general dis- 
satisfaction and ill-humor, in consequence of additional labor, 
and no additional help. 

The whole family, that is, the Deacon and his wife, and their 
son and daughter, Jerry and Sally, were seated on the porch in 
the moonlight, cutting apples to dry—for, as the father and son 
returned from the harvest-field in the evening, they brought re- 
gularly, each, a basket of apples, which were duly prepared for 
drying the next day—so that all the time was turned to good 
account. 

They worked in silence, and as at a task, which in fact it was, 
voluntarily assumed on the part of the old people, and quietly 
submitted to on that of the young. A low but belligerent 
growl of the great brindled watch-dog that lay at the front gate 
night and day, caused in the little group a general sensation, 
which became especially lively when it was followed by the 
click of the latch at the gate, and the sound of a briskly ap- 
proaching footstep. 

“Who on earth can be coming, this time of night?” ex- 
claimed the Deacon, in some alarm, for it was eight o’clock. 

“JT am afraid somebody is sick, or dead,” said Mrs. Whit- 
field ; but she was kept in suspense only a moment, when the 
genial salutation of “Good evening, neighbors,” dispelled all 
fears, 


ch 
— 


96 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


The visitor was Deacon White, a short, good natured, blue 
eyed man, who wore a fashionable coat and hat every day, and 
didn’t cut apples of nights. Jerry immediately vacated his 
chair, in behalf of the guest, and seating himself on a great 
speckled pumpkin, with an arch look at Sally, continued his 
work in silence; for the children, as they were always called, 
never AEA § to talk in the presence of superiors—that is, 
older people. The two neighbors talked about everything: 


crops in general, the wheat harvest in particular, and the pro- — 


bable prices of oats and potatoes; then of the various changes 
which had taken place in the neighborhood within their remem- 
brance, who had come from the east, and who had gone west, 


and who had been married, and who had died, until Sally began ‘ 


to think she never should find out what Deacon White had 


come for. At last, however, he revealed his errand, making it 
a sort of parenthesis in the body of his conversation, as though — 


it were a mere trifle, and he was used to such things every day, 


whereas it had doubtless troubled his mind from the beginning, — 
and he expected its announcement to create some sensation, — 


which, to his evident disappointment and mortification, it failed 


to do; or, if it did, Deacon Whitfield suffered not the slightest 


emotion to betray itself—a degree of impassibility being one 
of the strong points of his character on which he particularly 
prided Limecit 

“ Do you think our folks will go, Jerry?” said Sally, as bh 
helped her brother carry away the basket of apple-parings. 

“ Yes, I guess not,” said Jerry ; and then added, in a bitterer 
tone, “I’m glad he did not ask me—I wouldn’t have gone, if he 
had.” » 

The reader must know that the old-fashioned minister of the 
Clovernook church, having become dissatisfied with the new- 
fangled follies that had crept into the midst of his people, had 
lately shaken the dust from his feet and departed, after preach- 
ing a farewell sermon from the text, ‘““Oh, ye generation of 
vipers!” upon which, a young man, reputed handsome, and of 
charmingly social and insinuating manners, had been invited to 
take the charge, and his approaching installation was about to 
be preceded. by a dinner at Deacon White’s, he himself extend- 


DEACON WHITFIELD’S FOLKS. $7 


ing to his brother deacons the invitations in person. He had 
secretly felt little edified for several years past with the nasal 
exhortations of the old pastor, which invariably closed with 
“A few more risings and settings of the sun,” &c., and being 
pleased with the change himself, he naturally wished all the 
congregation to be so; and the dinner and merry-making at his 
house, he meant as a sort of peace-offering to those who were 
likely to be disaffected ; nevertheless, some few, among whom 
was Deacon Whitfield, were likely to prove stiff-necked. 

A dinner-party at five o’clock! That was the beatenes¢ thing 
he had heard of. He took supper at four. 

But though the old people manifested no disposition to en- 
courage with their presence such a nonsensical procedure, Sally, 
naturally enough, was anxious to go. She had never seen any- 
thing so fine as she supposed that would be; and her curiosity 
as to who would be there, and what they would wear, and how 
they would act, served continually to increase her desire. But 
day after day went by—for the invitations were given five days 
before the great event—without seeing any indications favorable 
to her wishes. She feared desperately for the result, but, not- 
withstanding, tried to assure herself that she was going. In her 
chamber, a dozen times over, she reviewed her wardrobe, and 
from a stock, somewhat scanty, selected a white muslin, which 
_ she thought would do if she only had a new neck-ribbon; but 
how to get one, that was the difficulty. She thought over a 
thousand expedients, but none of them seemed feasible. At 
last, as the day drew near, she resolved on a bold venture; and 
just as her father was leaving the house, after supper, she said, 
as though it had just occurred to her, and in a lively tone, to 
veil somewhat the feeling with which she made the request, 
“Oh! see here, father, I want you to give me a half a dollar.” 

The Deacon stopped short, sat down on the door-sill, and de- 
liberately took off his shoes, from which he emptied a con- 
siderable quantity of hay-seed; he then replaced them, tied 
them tight, and, without looking at or answering Sally, who all 
the while stood drawing the hem of her apron through her fin- 
gers, took his way to the field. 

Perhaps he did not hear me, thought she. I will ask again ; 

5 


$8 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and the resolve required great courage, for she secretly felt 
that he did hear her, and that a second repulse might not be so 
silent. Whenhe returned, however, her heart misgave her, and 
all the evening she sat and cut apples in silence; but when the 
last basket-full was finished, she ventured to hint softly of what 
was most engrossing in her thoughts, by saying, “ We ought to 
work later to-night than usual.” 

““T don’t see why,” said the Deacon, after a long pause. 

Sally felt that it was useless to tell why, and so said—‘ Oh! 
just because i 

“Sally Whitfield !” said the mother, thus sufficiently express- 
ing reproof for her freedom of speech. 

The poor child felt mortified, and baffle, and so went to bed, 
and, half in tears, half vexed, at length fell asleep. But sleer - 
is a wonderful restorative, especially to the young, and the fol 
lowing morning she felt fully determined to renew her applica- 
tion. The great day wascome. At the latest possible moment 
she said—‘ Father, are you not going to give me the money I| 
asked you for ?” 

“¢ What do you want of it, child?” he asked. 

A little encouraged, she replied that she wanted to get a new 
neck-ribbon, to wear to Deacon White’s. 

“JIt’s a pretty story,” said the father, “if you are to be 
dressed up, and sent to dinner-parties at five o’clock, and your 
mother and me at home at work. You don’t want a new ribbon 
any more than you want a new head. You had better wish you 
were a better girl, than to be wishing for new ribbons.” 

Her spirit was roused, and she said, “ You promised me a 
present long ago, for helping you winnow up the wheat.” 

“And haven’t you had presents every day? Who gives you 
your dinners and suppers, and gets you new shoes and 
dresses ?” 

She felt that these were not the presents promised for the 
hard days’ labor spoken of, but she said nothing further. 

All day she went about her work with a heavy heart; but at 
dinner her father said, ‘“ Well, Sally, I have brought you that 
present to-day!” and a weight fell from her heart, and a vision 
of the party rose bright and distinct before her, but faded pain- 


——_—— 


DEACON WHITFIELD'S FOLKS. 99 


fully as he went on to say, “It is no foolish gewgaw, but a 
nice sandstone, with which you may scour the churn and pails 
this afternoon, as bright as you please.” 3 

Feeling hes bosom tremble with a storm of emotions, the 
young girl left the table, and seating herself under a cherry- 
tree that grew by the kitchen door, began picking the clover 
blossoms which clustered thick about her feet, until she had 
fifty, for she had counted them over and over again, for the 
want of anything else todo. While she was thus employed, 
her father, whose scythe hung in the bough over her head, came 
towards Her: and seeing her clouded brow and her dishes res 
buked her severely, and concluded by saying, “ Now, go out 
of myvsight, and don’t let me see your face till you can act 
better.” 

A little from the main road, and out of view of the house, 
was a beautiful grove of elms, and to their pleasant shade, 
more from habit than motive, for she often went there, she bent 
her steps. : 

Unconsciously she had taken with her the clover buds; and 
seating herself beneath a low beech overrun with wild grape- 
vines, she began braiding her blossoms to a wreath. She was 
not beattifel, or more so than deep, dark eyes, a wealth of 
nut-brown curls, youth, and health, might make any one. The 
_ wood was dreamy and still ; the heavy shadows stretched longer 
and longer over the thick, Soe grass, as the day went down; 
the spider wove his pale, slender net-work from bough to ras 
entangling the golden sunlight; the birds quickened and deep- 
ened their songs, at first few and drowsy, till the trees shook 
with melody ; ‘and the winds blew the curls about her cheeks, and 
played with the wreath in her lap, as they would. The time 
and place-had had a softening and soothing effect, and, after 
locking her hands together, and humming over all the hetins 
she knew, leaning her head against the trunk of the tree be- 
neath which she sat, she had fallen asleep. 

Neither the winds nor the birds disturbed her; but when at 
length a human voice, though very low and gentle, addressed 
her, the dream was broken, and the blushes beneath her locks 


100 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


burnt crimson, when, looking up, she saw before her the young 
village clergyman. 

Gracefully, and somewhat gaily for his sacred profession, he 
apologized for the intrusion, saying he was not aware that the 
fair forest was presided over by a still fairer divinity ; and that, 
being on the way to meet for the first time the little flock over _ 
which he had been called to preside, he had been tempted by 
the exceeding beauty of the grove to turn aside, and hold com- 
munion with the the scene and his own heart. ‘But do you 
not live hereabout, and shall I not meet you at our festival ?” 
he continued. 

The tears came to her eyes in spite of all efforts to keep 
them back, as, pointing across the hills to the old-fashioned 
mansion where she lived, she said—‘“ I wanted to go, but”— 

She made no further explanation ; and, pulling her wreath of 
clover to pieces, scattered it on the ground. 

“The flowers of the grass perish,” said the minister, “ and 
our hopes, young damsel, are often like them.” ‘Then, in a 
livelier tone, as though some pleasant fancy crossed his mind, 
“Do you come here often ?” 

“Oh, very often; but as I have never before had any com- 
pany here save winter and rough weather, surprise has kept me 
from offering. you my mossy seat, which I beg you will now 
accept.” 

She was rising, when the young man motioned her to retain 
her place, saying, “I will take a part of it, though I fear Iam 
already waited for.” 

What they talked of I do not know, and cannot guess; but 
it must have been interesting, for, to the great gnniog bupe of 
Mrs. White, who liked to have things just so, the Deacon 
had drawn the curtain aside twenty times, to see if the minister 
were not coming; and the disaffected old ladies had whispered 
to each other, that the new preacher was a little too fashionable. 
The young ladies were out of patience, as their hair was out of 
curl, and a general damp was thrown over the spirits of all, by 
the suggestion of a prim, favorably disposed maiden, that the 
clergyman had gone to preach a funeral sermon, for that old 
Mr. Peters had been thrown from his horse the day previous, 


DEACON WHITFIFED'S FOLKS. Ga 


and killed; and she particularly emphasized the fact, that he 
never once spoke after he was carried into the house. The 
silence which succeeded this untimely intelligence was broken 
just five minutes before five, by a quick step on the threshold, 
and then appeared the smiling face of the clergyman, who, in 
answer to the numerous inquiries, said he had not been to 
preach a funeral sermon, but that accidental circumstances, 
which he did not explain, had a little while detained him. How- 
ever, the apology was satisfactory to all, and things went on 
charmingly. ‘The dinner did honor to Mrs. White, and the 
guests did honor to the dinner. Some of the old persons thought 
him a little too worldly-minded for a preacher, but the young 
people all admired him; and, on the whole, the impression 
he made was more favorable than he could have hoped. 

Supper had been over for an hour at Deacon Whitfield’s, 
when Sally made her appearance, presenting, to the surprise of 
her parents, no traces of sorrow or disappointment, but seem- 
ing, on the contrary, to be in an unusually happy and cheerful 
mood, 

Sabbath after Sabbath went by, and though Deacon Whit- 
field and his wife were regular in their attendance at church, 
they never tarried to shake hands with the new preacher; not 
that his talents and eloquence failed of softening their hearts, 
but they felt that a proffering of civility would be a tacit ac- 
_ knowledgment that they had been wrong, and they were not 
yet prepared so to humble their pride. 

The young preacher, however, seemed nowise offended by 
their coldness, if, indeed, he noticed it, and among his earliest 
pastoral visits, was one to Deacon Whitfield’s, on which oc- 
casion that gentleman greased his shoes, put on his best coat, 
and entertained him in the parlor, where Mrs. Whitfield also 
made her appearance shortly before tea, in clean cap and gown; 
but Sally was not permitted to go into the parlor, nor even to 
come to the tea-table. Though past sixteen, she was, in the 
estimation of her parents, a giddy little girl. 

Soon after supper, the minister took leave, saying he hoped 
hereafter to see all the Deacon’s family, at church. 

But the next Sabbath the young lady was not in her father’s 


[WOES SS © | OUR: NEIGHBORHOOD. 
pew, nor the next, nor the next, and the whole summer went 
by without her being once there. 

Early one September morning, the Deacon and his wife went 
to town, taking with them in the market wagon two live calves, 
two barrels of apples, and a sack of oats with them to feed the 
horses. 

Sally expected a new dress and bonnet, without which she 
said she would not go to church till Doomsday. And the old 
ones she had worn a good while, it is true. 

After dinner, Jerry went to the village, to borrow a book of 
the clergyman: it mattered not to him what, whether poetry or 
science, romance or history: something within him, he felt, re- 
quired food, and so he determined to borrow a book. Soon 
and cheerfully the household duties were performed, and Sally, 
arrayed in her white muslin dress and blue gingham apron, sat 
down to sew, while Jerry, who had very soon returned, read to 
her from his book, Jerusalem and the Holy Land; not long, 
however, for they were interrupted by the coming of the 
minister, who had very kindly brought another book to Jerry, 
which, he said, he had thought the young man would find of 
greater interest than the one he previously selected. Jerry 
felt as if he had an everlasting mine from which to draw; and, 
retiring to the stoop, seated himself on the speckled pumpkin, 
and read away the afternoon—first from one book, and then 
from the other. 

Autumn went by, and winter and spring, and it was again the 
time of the full moon of the harvest. The young clergyman 
had won the love of all his people, even that of Deacon Whit- 
field and his wife, to whose house he had been a very frequent 
visitor. But his fame had extended beyond his little flock, and 
he was about to go to a wider field—having been called to the 
charge of a wealthy society in the neighboring city. 

_ All were sorry to part with their beloved pastor, but Sally 
was more sorry than she dared to say ; she felt 


“The widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
With pulses that beat double.” 


DEACON WHITFIELD’S FOLKS. 108 


And when the day came for the farewell visit, she knew that 
her heart would betray itself, and, resolving to spare herself the 
torture of a last interview, she tied on her bonnet and went 
alone to the elm grove, that the cloud of her sorrow might fall 
on her heavily as it would. Engrossed with her own thoughts, 
and her eyes blinded with tears, she did not notice, till close on 
her rural bower, that it was already occupied. The pastor had 
preceded her. She would have turned aside, but it was too. 
late. 

Sad and half-reproachful was the tone, as the young man, 
offering her a part of the moss-bank on which they sat a year 
before said—“ It was scarcely kind thus to avoid seeing me, as 
you would have done, for you knew of my visit.” 

“JT would have spared myself the pain of saying farewell,” 
said the girl, her lip trembling, and her eyes full of tears. 

“And can you not spare yourself that pain? Yes—even till 
death shall part us ?” 

And the cheek of the listener was not angrily turned away 
from the kiss that followed the interrogation. 

What Sally answered I can only infer from the circum- 
stances; for when the Deacon shook hands that night with the 
young minister, he said—“ All I can give you I do freely—my 
prayers.” 

“T thank you very sincerely,” said the pastor, “ but there is 
yet another and greater blessing you could give me.” 


“Well, mother,” said the Deacon, as he entered the parlor, 
and, seating himself on the sofa, drew his wife close to his side, 
and kissed her thin, pale cheek with all of long-ago fondness, 
“T guess for the futer we'll have to do without Sally.” 


104 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES. 


Nor unlike the Whitfields, were a family in another direction 
from Clovernook, named Tompkins. The Tompkinses were 
not quite so respectable as the deacon’s folks; they were not so 
well-to-do in the world, and were by no means regular in their 
attendance at meeting ; and their relations, generally, were of a 
lower level. Nevertheless the two families were in many re- 
spects very much alike, and, as this chapter will show, liable to 
similar experiences. 

It was dark and chilly out of doors, as it well might be, for 
the sun had been set an hour, and the snow was falling in great 
heavy flakes. The little branches of the sweet-brier that grew 
close under the window, were bending lower and lower, and the 
cherry-trees, beside the house, looked like pyramids, so much 
‘snow had lodged in their limbs. On the sill, the great watch 
dog lay crouched from the cold, and whined sometimes, as he 
heard the merry laughter of the children within, who, in the 
warm sunshiny days, were often his play-fellows. These child- 
ren were three, the eldest, a girl of above fifteen, silently knit- 
ting by the firelight, for the hickory logs blazed brightly on the 
great stone hearth, making the silver spoons, fancifully set up 
in a kind of paling along the open dresser, and before the care- 
fully outspread china, to glow and glitter in the warm cheerful 
light. ‘The other children were boys of nine and eleven, as like 
as two peas, with the exception of a slight difference in size. 
Their hair was a sandy-yellow, cut in a straight line over the 
forehead, and an inch or so above their big gray eyes; and 
never was it perceptibly longer or shorter, for once a month, at 
the time of the new moon, their good mother, combing it very 


— 7 


ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES. 105 


smoothly, tied it down with a string, and trimmed it off with 
mathematical precision. Their faces were round, and com- 
pletely gray with freckles ; their cheeks standing dut with fat- 
ness, and shining as if just washed; and their hands of the 
chubby sort, red, and checked off, just now, with the cold. 
When they were tired of play—for they had been for an hour 
boisterously chasing each other about the room, tearing up the 
carpet in every direction, and tumbling and jostling against 
their sister, who, knitting quietly, did not seem to heed them— 
they lay down before the fire, and commenced a kind of whin- 
ing cry, which, as one ceased, from exhaustion, the other took up. 

“T say, Susan, give me something to eat; give me something, 
Tsay; I’m hungry, I am; Susan, give me some cake—I’ll tell 
mammy—see if I don’t.” 

“You had better be still,” said Susan, at last, quite worn out; 
“JT hear your father coming.” Susan never said “ father,” when 
speaking to her brothers, but “ your father,” as though she were 
a great deal older, and a great deal wiser than they—quite out 
of the reach of paternal authority, in fact, which was by no 
means the case, she being yet considered a mere child by her 
parents, though she had attained the stature and full develop- 
ment of womanhood and in every way her privileges were 
much more circumscribed than were those of her saucy brothers ; 
and it cannot be denied that she sometimes exercised the power 
she found herself possessed of, in something such sort as she 
was accustomed to feel, and if her brothers had continued their 
sniveling all night, they would not have obtained the cake with 
her permission; and though she threatened them with the ap- 
proach of their father, it was on her own account, and not theirs, 
for she well knew they would not have to repeat the request in 
his hearing. 

In a moment there was a muffled stamping on the snowy 
door-steps, and Mr. Tompkins, with a very red face, and an 
unusually surly expression, presented himself. Now, Mr. 
Tompkins was of the most bland and genial manner imagin- 
able, when he went visiting, or to mill, or to meeting, but at 
home, he maintained the most uncompromising austerity, only 
relaxing a little when some neighbor chanced to drop in. He 

5* 


106 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


evidently thought the least talk with his children, on terms of 
equality, an abatement of proper dignity, and so he seldom 
talked, and never smiled, for that might seem to imply a wil- 
lingners to talk. To Mrs. Tompkins, he sometimes yielded a 
little, because she would talk whether he responded or not. 

Drawing off his great coat, he shook out the snow, some of 
which fell on the upturned faces of the two boys, and some in 
the lap of Susan, making her needles grate under their yarn 
stitches. This accomplished, he hung it on the back of a chair 
before the fire to dry, and taking off his hat, shook it roughly 
over his hand, by way. of loosening the snow from the little fur 
that remained on it. Mr. Tompkins never got a new hat, at 
least not since I remember, though his wife wore fine shawls 
and dresses, 

William and John, meantime, kept up their cry for the cake, 
but not till Mr. Tompkins had been sometime seated before the 
fire, and quite a little puddle of water had thawed from his 
boots, and soiled the bluestone hearth, did he sanction their ap- 
peal—not by words, but by slowly and gravely turning his 
head toward Susan, and slightly elevating his eyebrows, per- 
ceiving which, she at once put down her work, lighted a tallow 
candle, and went to the cellar, to do which, she was obliged to 
go out of doors, and half-way round the house, whence she pre- 
sently returned with her light blown out by the wind, and a 
great rent in her apron, caused by its catching, in the dark, on a 
loose hoop of the vinegar-barrel. ‘The tears came to her eyes, 
partly from anger, partly from sorrow, for the apron was of 
silk, and made with special reference to a gathering of friends, 
which was to take place the next evening at Dr. Haywood’s. 
It was made of old material to be sure, being composed of two 
breadths of her mother’s brown wedding dress; but she had 
done her best for it, dipping it in water, and ironing it, while 
wet, and setting it off with knots of ribbon, which, by the way, 
it would have looked much better without, as they were of 
an unsuitable color, in some places of very deep dye, and in 
others pale, from having been worn one summer on the bonnet 

of Mrs. Tompkins, and two on that of Susan. But how should 
she know, poor child! She had seen Mary Haywood wear an 


ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES. e 107 


apron similarly adorned, and naturally wished to be in the 
fashion. She was by no means in the habit of wearing a silk 
apron at home, but she had completed this in her mother’s ab- 
sence, and under pretence of showing its effect—a harmless 
stratagem—as a quiet reminder of the approaching party, she 
had ventured to wear it for one evening. 

In every neighborhood there must be one family more fash- 
ionable, more aristocratic, than the rest. This family, in Clover- 
nook, was the Haywoods. Owing more to fallen fortunes, than 
for the sake of free air and exercise for the children—the osten- 
sible motive—they had but lately removed from the city, where 
they had previously resided, to the farm adjoining that of Mr. 
Tompkins. The dilapidated homestead, with the addition of 
new wings, piazzas, shutters, and some green and white paint, 
was speedily made to assume a cottage-like and comfortable 
appearance. ‘The main entrance was adorned with a silver 
plate, on which was engraved, the name of Dr. Haywood, and 
this, with the bell-handle, completed the effect: no other house 
in the neighborhood boasting such superfluous ornaments. 

Dr. Haywood, naturally of a social and democratic manner, 
and a little influenced, it may be, by the hope of professional 
success, was not long in making himself a very popular man. 
He even condescended to accept the office of trustee of the dis- 
trict school—attending on set occasions, and inspecting copy- 
books and geographies, and listening to the children’s rhetorical 
readings from Peter Parley’s First Book of History, with an 
easy dignity, as though 


** Native and to the manner born.” 


He also interested himself in the improvement of stock, and 
was a frequent visitor to the barnyards of his neighbors, talk- 
ing of his own wheat and potato crops, and now and then asking 
advice relative to the rules of planting and harvesting. 

Still there were some malcontents, who persisted in calling 
the family “ big-bugs,” for that Mrs. Haywood wore flowers in 
her cap every day, kept a negro woman in the kitchen, and had 
visitors from town. Moreover, the Doctor, though he had been 
seen in his shirt-sleeves among the hay-makers, very rarely, it 


108 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


must be owned, wrought with his own hands. But the preju- 
dice almost ended, when he made a great raising for his new 
barn, to which he invited all the men and boys, in person, very 
often repeating the jest, that a farmer must have a barn whether 
he had any house or not. At the conclusion of the raising, a 
very excellent supper was provided—Mrs. Haywood doing the. 
honors of the coffee-urn, and inviting all the men to come and 
bring their wives, regretting her own poor efforts to make the 
neighborhood social. 

This dissolved much of the unkind feeling, but any innova- 
tion on established custom, is likely to meet opposition among 
much wiser people than those of whom I write, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Tompkins could or would not be reconciled to folks who 
stuck themselves up with their waiters and door-bells. Mrs, 
Haywood, waiving ceremony, had herself made the first call, 
and the Doctor had made informal visits to Mr. Tompkins, in 
the barn, repeatedly, with no effect. 

Susan, however, had none of the obstinacy of her parents, 
and consequently when she received a written invitation, to 
honor, with her presence, Mary Haywood’s birth-day, she was 
on tip-toe with the desire to go. To her great discomfort, she 
had as yet received but little encouragement, her father treating 
the whole thing as preposterous, and her mother, though there 
was sometimes a yielding in her look, seeming to feel that her 
dignity required her to present an unshaken front. against all 
temptations. So the probabilities of the gratification of Susan’s 
darling wish were exceedingly dubious, up to the time referred 
to in the beginning of this chapter, which was the evening pre- 
ceding the “Haywood fandango,” as Mrs. Tompkins was 
pleased to describe it. . 

Stealthily, time and again, had Susan examined her scant 
wardrobe, trying on all her old summer dresses to see which 
would look the best ; but as they were all faded calicoes, it was 
difficult to make choice. In her own mind, at last, she decided 
on a pink, and bringing it from its winter quarters to press it 
off, and make it look as smart as possible, her mother, as if 
without the remotest conception of its intended use, dampened, 
and almost prostrated all her hopes, by inquiring what she in- 


ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES. 109 


tended to do with that thin gewgaw, this time of year. The poor 
child could not summon courage to say what she felt her 
mother already knew, and so, simply remarking that she wanted 
to see how it looked, carried it away, and hung it in its accus- 
tomed place. In a day or two her hopes revived, and she 
made up the brown apron, with which she felt pretty well 
satisfied, picturing to herself how it would look with the pink 
dress, until the fatal hour it received that “ envious rent.” 

There was one hope left: if her mother would only let her 
wear her Sunday silk! True, it might not fit precisely, but no 
body would notice that; she would ask, as soon as her mother 
came home; at any rate, there was a bare possibility of success. 
Stimulated with this hope, and revolving in her mind in what 
way she should ste the subject, she again took up her 
knitting, and tried to forget her ruined apron, but her courage 
sadly misgave her, when, towards eight o’clock, looking as 
blustery as the storm through which she had been plodding, her 
mother returned. She had been to the village—for Tompkins’s 
house was nearly a mile from Clovernook—to look at a corpse. 

“ Well, mother, doesn’t it snow pretty hard?’ said Mr. 
Tompkins, breaking silence for the first time during the even- 
ing. “Why, no,” said the good woman ; “there’s now and 
then a flake, but I think it’s quite too warm to snow.” She 
thought the remark implied a reproof to her for being out. 

“T hope it will stop before to-morrow night,” said Susan, and 
her fingers flew faster than before; and receiving no notice, she 
continued, after a moment, “because I can’t go to the party if 
it snows.” 

“T guess you can’t if it don’t snow,” said Mrs. Tompkins, and 
Susan felt it almost a relief, when one of the children, rising 
from his recumbent posture on the carpet, said, “Mammy, 
Susan tore her new silk apron, she did.” “I'll dare say, Susan 
is always doing mischief—how did it happen, child?” she con- 
tinued, querulously, taking the torn apron in her hand, and fit- 
ting it together. Susan explained how it chanced, but her 
mother said, “if she had not had it on, as she had no business 
to have it, this would not have happened.” 

There is no telling how long she would have gone on, but for 


110 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


the boy’s asking her why she didn’t get him something pretty, 
to which she replied, “Something pretty costs money: do you 
think it grows on bushes? Your father and me have to get 
you shoes, and coats, and something to eat, and to pay your 
schooling, and I don’t know what all, before we get pretty things. ” 
Mrs. Tompkins always talked to her children as if they were 
greatly to blame for wanting anything, or, in fact, for being in 
the world at all; and it did not soften her present mood when 
the child continued, that Walter Haywood had a knife, and he 
wanted one. ‘ 

“Walter Haywood,” she replied, “has a great many things 
that you can’t have; and if you had everything he has, you 
couldn’t be Walter Haywood: they are rich folks.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins embraced every opportunity of im- : 
pressing their children with the consciousness of their humility 
and unworthiness; and, in keeping with this, she on the present 
occasion told her little boy that he could not be Walter Hay- 
wood—as though he belonged to quite a different order of 
beings. 

The little fellow sat down and hung his head, feeling very un- 
comfortable. At length he asked his mother when he should 
grow big—thinking, childishly, perhaps, of some great thing he 
might then do. “ La, child,” she said, “I don’t know any more 
than the man in the moon: here, Susan, take him to bed—it’s 
time little boys were asleep.” 

So he was reluctantly dragged away, without any sort of idea 
when he should become a man, and feeling that most likely he 
could not be like Walter Haywood, if he were one. 

When Susan returned, she found her parents engaged in an 
unusually lively conversation about the recent death, and the 
time of the funeral, and who would preach, and Mrs. ‘Tompkins 
concluded by saying “it was a very pretty corpse, and looked 
just as natural.” 

Mrs. Tompkins went to look at every body who died within 
four or five miles—a peculiar taste, that of hers—and Susan 
thought her mother’s heart must be softened, and was about to 
ask if she might go to the party, when she suddenly turned the 
conversation in a different channel by exclaiming in a very 


ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES. 111 


earnest tone—“ Have you heard, father, of the great robbery 


last night ?” 
“No, mother, I can’t say that Ihave; J’ve been busy in my 


barn, winnowing up a few bushels of oats.”? There was another 
evident reproof, and Mrs. Tompkins was silent, perceiving 
which, he asked where the robbery was, and what its nature. 

“ At Mr, Miller’s;” and the offended was again silent. 

“ What was lost ?” 

“Some hams, I believe, and other things.” 

“How many hams, and what other things ?” 

“J didn’t ask how many; a fine shirt was taken, too.” 

“Do they suspect anybody in particular ?” 

66 Yes.” ’ 

“ Who is it 2 somebody about here ?” 

‘Not very far off.” 

“ Ah, indeed!” and Mr. Tompkins seemed to feel no further 
curiosity. Whereupon, Mrs. Tompkins put the embers to- 
gether and related all she knew of the matter. 

“T expect,” she said, “I have the story pretty straight: Mrs. 
Miller told me herself about it. She says she thinks she was 
awake at the very time. She had some toothache, along the 
fore part of the night, and didn’t get to sleep till almost mid- 
night, and then she got into a kind of a daze, and dreamed, she 
said, that all the cattle had broke into the door-yard, and the 
dog was trying to drive them out; and then, she said, she 
thought one of the cows hooked open the smokehouse-door, and 
she was scared, for she thought she would eat up a bag of buck- 
wheat that had been put in there that day; and she woke up 
with a kind of start, she said, and the dog was barking and 
making a dreadful racket, and she thought at first she would get 
up, and then she thought it was foolish—it was just some of 
the neighbor’s dogs or something or other, and so she lay still 
and went to sleep. When she got up in the morning, she said, 
she saw the smokehouse-door open, but she thought the wind 
had blown it open, likely, and didn’t think anything till she 
went out to cut the ham for breakfast, and found them all gone, 
and the bag of buckwheat into the bargain. It seems likely it 
was somebody that had some spite against them, she says, for 


112 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Mr. Troost had his hams there being smoked, and not one of 
them was touched.” 

“ That 7s strange,” said Mr. Tompkins ; “we must get a pad 
lock ; they’ll be after us next. Mr. Miller is pretty spunky; 1 
shouldn’t wonder, mother, if he got out a sarch-warrant.” 

“There has a family lately moved into Mr. Hill’s old house, 
that people think are no better than they should be,” said Mrs. 
Tompkins. ‘They don’t work, they say, and no body knows 
how they live; but we all know they must eat, and some think 
they get it between two days. Did you bring the towels off 
the line, Susan 2” 

Mr. Tompkins put on his great-coat, and taking the hammer 
from the mantel where it always lay, went out and nailed up 
the door of the smokehouse, and chained the dog to the cellar 
door—making him a kennel of an old barrel, which he turned 
‘down for the purpose, and partly filled with straw, for he was 
merciful to his beasts. This done, he wound up his watch, hung 
it under the looking-glass, after first holding it to his ear a mo- 
ment, and retired. Mrs. Tompkins stirred up a little jar of 
batter-cakes for breakfast, covering it with a clean towel, and 
placing it on the hearth to rise; and, telling Susan it was time 
for little girls to be sleepy, went to bed. 

After thinking over the chances for the next evening—whether 
she should be able to go, and if so, whether her mother would 
let her have the dress, and in that case how it would look—that 
young lady betook herself to her chamber. 

In the morning she arose bright and early, and had the break- 
fast nearly prepared when her mother came down, for she hope | 
in that way to merit a little extra indulgence. Cheerfully she 
flew about the house, doing everything, and more than every- 
thing, that was required of her—singing snatches of songs, and 
running after the children, who were always ready with, “Susan, 
give me something.” 

Dinner came and passed just as usual, and Mrs. Tompkins 
prepared to go to the funeral without speaking of the evening. 
While she was gone, Susan put all her best things where she 
could readily get them, combed and arranged her hair in the 
most tasteful manner imaginable, and made ready the tea, so 


ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES. 118 


that nothing should detain her. She could not eat any supper, 
and finding lofiger suspense intolerable, said abruptly, ‘* Mother 
may I go ?” 

* Go where, child ?” 

“To Mary Haywood’s party: all the girls are going, and I 
want to go.” ? 

“It’s a pretty story, if you are to be running about to parties 
of nights, child as you are! What do you think Mary Hay- 
wood wants of you? besides, I have use, for you at home.” 

Poor Susan ; it would be in vain to attempt a description of 
her feelings, but they availed nothing, and with a terrible 
headache she sat down to her knitting—her brothers saying 
every now and then, “ Eh, Susan, I knew you wouldn’t get to 
go, if you did comb your hair so nice !” 

The crickets chirped under the hearth—the boughs of the 
cherry-trees creaked against the panes, as the rough wind went 
and came: to Susan it had never seemed so lonesome, and she 
scarcely could help the wish she were out of the world. Sud- 
denly the dog rattling his chain, barked furiously, then was still 
for a moment, and then barked louder than before. There was 
a stamping at the door, and a loud quick knock. “ Come in,” 
said Mr. Tompkins. 


‘¢ And presently the latch was raised, 
And the door flew open wide, 
And a stranger stood within the hall.” 


He wasa dark handsome fellow, of perhaps twenty—in one 
hand holding a small knapsack, and in the other a fine rifle, 
highly polished and profusely plated with silver, together with 
a string of dead birds. He bowed gracefully to the old people, 
and something more than gracefully to Susan ; and then asked 
Mr. Tompkins if he were the proprietor of the farm—and 
whether he would like to hire an assistant. Mr. Tompkins 
said he “believed not; he had not much to do in the winter; 
was not very well able to hire,” &¢. But Mrs, Tompkins was 
generally opposed to her husband in every thing, and said she 
“thought for her part there was plenty to do; all the fences 
were out: of repair, which would be work enough for one man 


114 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


for six months—then it would soon be sugar-making, and what 
could one man do without help?” 

“ don’t know but youare right, mother,” said the husband ; 
“‘what may be your terms, young man 2” 

This the young man scarcely knew; he was not a farmer, 
but was willing to do his best, and receive whatever should be 
right. So it was agreed that he should remain for a month, 
and putting by knapsack and gun, he drew up to the fire, and 
was soon quite at home—relating odd adventures of travel; 
and talking of different. countries, and, also, saying something 
of himself. He was, as the conversation developed, a French- 
man, who coming to this country to seek his fortune, had ex- 
hausted his means, and finding himself slightly out of health, 
had resolved to spend some months in the country for the 
benefit of both. 

In listening to his stories of sea and land—for he talked well, 
Susan forgot Mary Haywood and her party; and when he bid 
her goodnight, he called her Miss Tompkins, producing a new 
and altogether charming sensation, for every one had called her 
Susan, or Miss Susan, till then. 

The next day Mr. Maurice Doherty, for that was his name, 
accompanied Mr. Tompkins to mill, taking his rifle to bring 
down any game that might chance to put itself in his way. 
During the day, Susan found time to mend her apron, and also 
to press with extra care her black flannel frock, in which, having 
prepared tea, she arrayed herself, and sat down with her 
knitting, as usual, but listened very eagerly for the rumbling of 
the mill wagon. At last it came, and when the horses were 
duly stabled, and the bags deposited in the barn, Maurice pre- 
sented himself, with three birds in his hand, their wings drop- 
ping loose and sprinkled with blood. These he presented to 
Susan, giving her directions as to the best method of dressing 
them, which she engaged to undertake, for his breakfast. 

She was not handsome, being short and chubby, but she was 
sprightly, intelligent, of an exceeding fair complexion—which, 
when talking, especially when talking to Maurice, became rose- 
ate—and she really looked pretty. 

At breakfast the birds were forthcoming, and Mr. Doherty 


ABOUT THE TOMPKINSES. 115 


said he had never before eaten any that were so deliciously 
seasoned. He understood much better than Dr. Haywood, 
how to ingratiate himself with the old people and was not long 
in becoming a great favorite with them ; so that when the month 
of his engagement was expired, he was re-engaged for three 
months longer. 

Time wore on—the fences were propt and mended, stumps 
uprooted, apple-trees trimmed, and many other things done, 
making Mr. Tompkins feel how much better than one, two per 
sons could attend to his farm. 

He should never try to get along alone again, and now that 
he had assistance, he proposed building a little cabin in the 
edge of the sugar-camp, which would be an admirable conve- 
nience during the sugar making, and could afterwards when 
~ Maurice was gone, be let to a tenant. ‘The young man entered 
heartily into the merits of the plan, and the work immediately 
began. But Maurice insisted on its being well done ; “it was,” 
he said, “the first house he had ever built, and it must be 
_worthily executed: a carpenter must be had to make the door 
and windows, to lay the floor and put in a closet or two, and a 
mason to build the chimney and lay down the hearth. Mr. 
Tompkins contended stoutly that it was all a useless expense ; 
it was only for a tenant; but Maurice urged the propriety of 
its being comfortable and durable, and finally carried the point ; 
and when it was completed, it was really a convenient and 
habitable looking cottage, especially when the fire was made 
on the hearth for the sugar-making. 

During the season, Susan was often sent down to tend the 
kettles, while Maurice went to the house, to attend the evening 
chores. But the cottage was all bright with fire-light, and 
Maurice entertained his guest so pleasantly, that she sometimes 
chanced to stay after he returned. One twilight, toward the 
close of the sugaring, Susan tied on her bonnet, and taking a 
little basket of apples and cakes with which Maurice might re- 
gale himself and wile away the time, went to the “ camp.” 

All the way she was thinking, The sugar-making will soon be 
over, and Maurice will go away; and she felt very sad; she 
did not ask herself why, she only knew she had never been so 


116 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


happy as while he was there, and she would be very lonesome 
when he was gone. 

“Why, what is the matter with my little wood-nymph 2?” 
said Maurice, as she presented the basket and was sorrowfully 
turning away ; “you must sit down and tell me.” _ 

She did sit down, and half turning away her face, said simply, 
“‘] was thinking that we might, perhaps, never boil sugar here 
any more,” | 

“Perhaps not,” said Maurice, putting his arm about her 
neck and turning her cheek to his lips, “ but couldn’t we live 
here without boiling sugar?” 

The following morning after breakfast, he told Mr. Tompkins 
if he was still disposed to let the cottage, he and Susan would 
take it. 


ANNIE HEATON, 117 


ANNIE HEATON. 


Tue moon, nearly at the full, was going down behind the 
withered woods—for it was late in October—and thick shining 
gum leaves lay here and there in red and heavy masses, while 
the lighter foliage of the maple surged, as the gust rose and 
fell, now in eddying heaps, now in long wavering drifts, and 
now like a cloud of birds, fluttering and filling all the air. 

The moon, as I said, was sinking in the west, and the woods, 
to which I refer, skirted a lot of damp low meadow-ground, 
along the eastern declivity of which ran the narrow grass-grown 
road, leading to a neighboring market-town, near which, in a 
little hollow, stood a small and antiquated farm-house, the loca- 
tion of which must have been decided on account of a spring 
of fresh, ever-flowing water, that, running through an ample 
brick milk-house, with steep mossy roof, and door of slabs, 
fastened with chain and padlock, had more than once facilitated 
the making of the premium butter for the county fair. 

The homestead was simply and roughly built, of unhewn logs 
in the rear, though the front, or parlor, was of squared timber, 
and two stories high, with a very narrow and high door, painted 
a dark, brown red, on either side of which was a window, nearly 
square with casings of the same color. Along. the whole front 
- ran a low portico, supported at each end by an apple-tree, an- 
_ swering the double purpose of shade and column, around which 
still twined the blackened vines of the morning glory; but the 
beautiful blue flowers were gone, and the leaves crisped and 
withered, though evincing yet the care of gentle and loving 


118 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


hands, whose little attempts at grace may in some sort render 
a habitation, however rude, homelike and pleasant. 

Nearly in front of the house, and divided from it by the public 
road, was the large barn, surrounded with cribs, stack-yards, &c., 
all of which evinced the proprietor a man of means and enter- 
prise; while the lean rough-haired colts, and drove of stary- 
ing cattle, told of a master’s hand less accustomed to distribute. 
than to acquire. And near, in the edge of a scrubby and untrim- 
med orchard, was the cider-press, serving, in the winter, to shel- 
ter the wagon, with yokes for the oxen, plows, hoes, sythes, and 
all the various implements of farming. Here, too, was the re- 
ceptacle of all useless household furniture, which, I have ob- 
served, some families preserve with pious attention; and this 
particular cider-press was always well supplied with such arti- 
cles. In one place hung a bottomless chair, and in another a little 
old-fashioned side-saddle, worn out, and broken in such a man- 
ner that it never could be repaired, though it had been thus 
preserved ten or fifteen years—an illustration of some peculiar 
feeling that I never could define. Ranged along the beams, 
wisely kept for show, no doubt, were various pieces of broken 
crockery ; also, children’s shoes, and men’s boots, stiffened by 
time and covered with mildew ; old hats, of a variety of styles; 
all of which were examined once or twice a year, and carefully 
replaced—kept, as the owner was wont to say, for the good they 
had done. Really, a lover of antiquities might find the scene 
worth visiting. sh 

The master of the barn, the cattle, colts, and cider-press, and 
the occupant of the log-house, was Joseph Heaton, a man who 
might truly be denominated a worker—one who worked 
not only for the love of gain, but for the mere love of work. 
Early and late, winter and summer, he was busy ; and every 
man, woman, and child, who did not engage in toil to the same 
degree he did himself, was esteemed by him not only a useless 
appendage of society, but a vile creature, whom he was bound 
by every consideration of duty to despise. 

A helpmeet for him, was Mrs. Heaton—a woman after his 
own heart. Whether the memory that the cow and side-saddle 
were the only marriage portion she had brought her husband, 


ANNIE HEATON. 119 


while he was the proprietor of all that parcel of land on which 
they still resided, filled her heart with an overwhelming sense 


of gratitude, or whether it was the consciousness of her hus- 


band’s unapproachable wisdom, or it was a combination of these 
causes, I know not, but she was ever submissive and obe- 


dient, to that degree which esteems servility a privilege. It 


was not the habit of Mr. Heaton to make known his wishes by 
the voice—he had no such vulgar habit—but the cold blue eyes 
of his wife could readily interpret his signs, and words were 
seldom necessary between them. When she saw him in the 
inevitable black cravat and drab-colored vest, and observed 
signs of getting out the carriage, she knew his intention to visit 
the city, and accordingly named over to him such little articles 
as housekeeping makes necessary to be procured from time to 
time ; only expecting, however, that he would bring the smaller 
part of them—it being a convenient habit of Mr. Heaton’s to 
forget, when remembrance made necessary a disbursement of 
money. 

At night, when he laid aside the Bible or the newspaper— 
and he never read save in one or the other—Mrs. Heaton put 
away her work, and silently covered the embers, when the whole 
family retired: this part of the domestic discipline being usually 
enforced about eight o’clock. No marvel that the children of 
such parents felt their presence a restraint, being in some way 


compelled to keep down, under their observance, all natural 


emotions of joy or sorrow, and thus learning, in youth, those first 
lessons in hyprocrisy, which might be learned in the cradle, if 
the infant mind were sufficiently capable of retaining impres- 
sions. 

If ever, by any possibility, it chanced that Laughter, holding 
both his sides, found ingress to the domicile of the Heatons, 
they felt themselves outraged, their dignity trampled on, and 
their parental authority wrested away; and on all such occa 
sions the observance of a more rigid discipline followed, for a 
fortnight at least, in order to bring under due subjection the 
spirit of such rebellion. ; : 

Every day, “long ere the morn, in russet mantle clad, walk- 
ed o’er the dew of the high eastern hills,” a rap on the door of 


120 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the chamber dispelled all dreams, and called the inmates back 
to cheerless toil—that saw, down the long future, no mitigation, 
or hope of reward. If ever they wearied of the dull routine, 
they were asked, reproachfully, if in that way they expected to 
repay their parents for the trouble and anxiety they had oc- 
casioned. 

There are sufferings to be endured in the world, that take no 
shape, and have no name. Living witnesses of this were the 
children of Joseph Heaton—Samuel, and Annie, and Mary; 
but there was another inmate of the family—Binder, as every- 
body called him, from his being an apprentice, but whose real 
name was Mills Howard—who might also have testified of these 
things. 

But that setting of the moon, referred to in the beginning of 
this chapter, was to usher in a happy day for him—a day that 
would see him a man, and a freeman. No wonder he could 
not sleep that night: he was too happy. Perhaps, too, 
there was another cause to keep sleep from his pillow; he 
sighed, as the moon went down on the last night of his bondage, 
and half wished the coming day were not so near. 

Nor was he the only one who watched the sinking of the 
moon, till it was quite lost in the thick woods, where so many 
autumns he had gathered ripe nuts and red hawthorn apples to 
pour into the lap of Annie or Mary; for, whether or not he 
liked one of the young girls better than the other, he never 
failed to present any such little offering to the one he first met, 
though, when given to Annie, he always said, “for you and 
Mary ;” while, when Mary received the gift, he rarely mentioned 
the name of Annie. Her deep-blue eyes, from the chamber 
adjoining his, watched the going down of that moon. She was 


not like’ 
‘¢ A holy hermit, dreaming, 
Half asleep and half awake ;” 


for her voice had almost a startling distinctness, though very 
low, as laying her hand caressingly on the snowy shoulder of 
her sister, she called twice or thrice, “Mary,” ere the latter 
drowsily answered, “ Did you call, Annie? Is it morning ?” 
“No, it is not morning. Forgive my calling you; but I 


ANNIE HEATON. 121 


could not sleep ; I don’t know why; and I thought perhaps you 
might be awake,” she said, as she suffered her head to slip 
almost from the pillow, till her long, black tresses, falling loose- 
ly down, swept the floor. In certain states of mental restless- 
ness, we find a sort of relief in making ourselves physically 
uncomfortable. Something of this feeling was, perhaps, hers ; 
for, without changing her position, she continued, as if talking 
to herself, “I wish the moon was down. To me, there is 
always something lonesome in the moonlight ;” and, pushing 
aside the muslin curtains of her bed, the light streamed broad 
and full over the faces of the sisters. They were not beautiful, 
except to the degree that youth and health constitute beauty. 

Annie, the elder, was slightly formed,,with deep-blue melan- 
choly eyes, long, heavy tresses of jetty black hair, and that pecu- 
liar cast of countenance which made her seem the saddest when 
she smiled. Her manner was quiet and subdued ; ordinarily the 
result, as most persons would suppose, of unambitious content- 
ment, but arising, in fact, from a want of interest in the things 
about her, and a consciousness of the utter hopelessness of 
all effort. She was a dreamer; and under her calm exterior 
lay a heart ever rocking on the stormiest waves of passion. 
She rarely spoke of what she felt; when she did, it was with 
a deep earnestness that moistened her eyes, and with that faint, 
sad smile, which she seemed to put on as an assurance to her- 
self that she was stronger than she appeared. 

Only for the eyes of one had she put off the deceitfulness of 
her accustomed manner, and shown herself as she really was, 
giving utterance to 

Hopes and wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long. 

In hearing of successful endeavor, in listening to eloquence, 
in reading chance fragments that embodied her own feelings, 
she found all her happiness. Sometimes she found a delight in 
exaggerating the evils of her position, fighting battles with 
imaginary difficulties. Sometimes the glory of a sunset, the 
beauty of autumn woods, or the plenty smiling from a field, 
threw over her heart a spirit of adoration, and she poured out all 
her soul in prayer. But, in other moods, the beauty of the 

6 


122 Ci. OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


world seemed to her a mockery ; and if she prayed at all it was 
with an eagerness that demanded to be answered, and with out- 
stretched hands, that would have pressed open the gates of 
paradise. 7 

Mary, younger by several years, was of a gayer tempera- 
ment, with black, mischief-loving eyes, and glossy ringlets, the 
beauty of which she was wont to set off with knots of bright-red 
flowers, or the shining berries of the honeysuckle—the striking 
contrasts producing a pleasing effect. Fond of showy dress, 
and a little given to coquetry, she would have been as happy as 
her nature was capable of being, if the means of gratifying 
these propensities had been placed within her reach. As it was, 
she was disposed toymake the best of circumstances; and, 
when they were most against her wishes, she had always a re- 
serve force of laughter. She did not often dare indulge her 
mirthfulness; but the knowledge of its being forbidden made 
the inclination irrepressible, and often, in the presence of her 
father, screened from his observant eyes by closet, door, or friend- 
ly curtain, she would take what she termed a “ benefit.” Often 
she gave utterance to feelings she dared not express in her own 
language, in pious quotations from psalms and hymns, which 
she gave with arch expression and reverent voice. In this way 
she was fond of giving flow to her exuberance of spirit when 
Binder was at hand, as he never failed, by look or gesture, to 
assure her that her tact was appreciated. Even Annie was 
thus sometimes cheated into a smile. But so opposite were the 
sisters in character and disposition, that, though all in all to 
each other now, neither would have been much dependent on 
the other for happiness, could they have been placed in circum- 
_ stances agreeable to their tastes. 

So there they lay—those two sisters—under the silver 
tissue of the moonlight; the black tresses of Annie sweeping 
from the pillow, and the little white hands of Mary locked be- 
hind her own moist curls, revealing a bust of peculiar grace, 
rounded to the perfect fulness of beauty. 

They talked of dreams. Mary had dreamed that a strange 
man came to the house, while she was without shoes, in her 
hurry to obtain which ‘she ran over her father’s great chair, and 


ANNIE HEATON. 123 


for so offending was shut up in the smoke-house; and with the 
fright of her imprisonment she awoke. “ And,” she continued, 
with greater animation, “I dreamed that Binder was gone, and 
that, as he was going, he asked me for this very curl,” pulling 
one from her forehead, and winding it about her fingers. 
“ Wasn’t it an odd dream, Annie 2” 

“TI don’t know,” was the half-pettish answer. “But what 
makes you call him Binder? I am sure he always calls you 
by your right name.” 

“No, he don’t. He calls me gipsy, and deary, and what 
not, when father don’t hear him.” . 

“TI was not aware of his fond titles to you.” 

“ Well, I was,” was the provoking reply, and they relapsed 
into silence, which was broken at last by Mary, who, conscious 
of the annoyance her words had caused her sister, said kindly, 
“What are you thinking of, Annie?” 

“JT was thinking, as I watched that little glimmer of moon- 
light on the wall, and saw it lessening, and fading out, before 
the dark, how much it was like all my hopes—gleaming for a 
moment, and then lost in the darkness.” 

“ You must not think so; or, even if your hopes be like that, 
remember it is only gone for a little while, and to-morrow 
night—for the moon is not yet full—will come back larger and 
brighter than before. I am sure your hopes will grow brighter 
and brighter: you are so good, so wise.” 

The fountain of her heart was full, and it only needed a kind 
word to make it overflow, and, she buried her face in her pillow. 
The moon went down, and when, at length, Annie looked up, 
the moonlight had ceased to glimmer on the wall, and all was 
dark. But folding her arms tightly over her bosom, as if she 
held beneath something the powers of darkness should not 
wrest away, she said, “You are right, Mary ; I will hope.” 

What a relief to Mary were those words! she was forgiven ; 
and she turned over in her mind a thousand offices of kindness, 
she meant to perform as an atonement. She knew she had 
purposely wounded the sensitive nature of her sister, and she 
determined to make reparation, without any open confession. 
Perhaps she was not aware herself of this, as the morning came, 


124 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


bending over Annie, she gathered the heavy tresses away from 
her forehead, and wound them into the simple knot, in which 
she was accustomed to wear them, not failing, as she did so, to 
praise their beauty. When she had smoothed them all away, 
she said abruptly, as though the thought had just occurred to 
her, “ Oh, this is the day that Mills is going toleave us! How 
lonesome we shall be! But Annie, he will sometimes write to 
you, won’t he?” 

““ He says so ; but perhaps he will forget it, when he is away. 
He will be gone a long while, you know—five years; that is 
long enough to forget us all, I am sure.” 

“Long enough, perhaps; but I defy him to forget me in that 
time. I expect to be the same laughing girl, when he comes 
back, that I am now—not much wiser, I am afraid, but so happy 
to see him! I wish the time were all gone, and this were the 
_ day of his return. Let me see: in five years I shall be just 
twenty-one—as old as he is now.” 

“And I,” said Annie, with an ill-boding sigh, “shall be 
twenty-five.” 

Stealthily the light of the morning brightened ; and as it was 
followed by the accustomed summons, the sisters rose, Annie 
in silence, and Mary saying, laughingly, 


‘¢ Dear me! is this my certain doom, 
And am I still secure— 
This marching to the breakfast-room, 
And yet prepared no more ?” 


Passing the door of the freed apprentice’s chamber, she said, in 
a suppressed whisper, “farewell, Binder! Good morning Mr. 
Mills Howard: I hope, sir, you are very well;” and as she ran 
Jaughingly by Annie, she added, “I wish I had told him to 
pray for father, he has been so good to him.” 

“What do you say ?” said Mr. Heaton, who stood combing 
his iron-gray hair, at the foot of the stairs. 

“J said,” replied Mary, readily, “it was good to get up 
early ;” and hurrying by him, she screened her face behind the 
accustomed curtain, whence, as soon as her laughter subsided, 


ANNIE HEATON. 128 


she emerged, making some commonplace observation ubout the 
beauty of the morning. 

Not many minutes were required for making ready the 
breakfast, the honors of which were done in’ silence by Mrs. 
Heaton, except for Mr. Heaton, who always prepared his own 
coffee. Meals were announced by blowing a horn, which always 
hung on the same nail at the end of the portico, and over which 
Samuel invariably deposited his hat, while eating, and on Sun- 
days. He was a precise youth. When Binder appeared in the 
breakfast-room, he talked with unusual spirit, as though going 
out alone and friendless into the world were a very trifling 
matter ; in fact, he thought nothing about it. But he was not 
in his usual work-day dress, and this must have made him pain- 
fully conscious of his new position; but was arrayed in his 
“freedom suit,” the material of which was of a bluish-gray 
color, home-made ; and the workmanship of a country tailoress ; 
of a coarse, heavy texture, it sat so ungracefully, that the form 
and likeness of the man were quite lost. But, though appear- 
ing in this guise, and bringing with him all his worldly effects, 
which, in fact, consisted of a stout walking-stick of hickory, and 
some articles of clothing tied in a yellow-and-red cotton hand- 
kerchief, no remark relative to his departure was elicited from 
the elder Heatons; and only a quiet exchange of glances, 
among the younger group, showed that they, though silent, 
were not unobservant. 

Mills seemed to relish the breakfast unusually well, speedily 
passing his cup for coffee, though he never drank more than one 
cup before; but the mirth was gone from the lips of Mary, and 
Annie had no appetite that morning. Mills, as he appeared in 
his new clothes, must have provoked a smile from any unin- 
terested beholder; but what was it to them? They only 
thought of his honest heart—his generous sacrifices in their be- 
half. They had trodden together a long, rough way, which 
was often smoothed by his genial humor or kind encourage- 
ment; they had eaten at the same table, and slept beneath the 
same roots he had known all their sorrows, and shared them ; 
and now, it would never be so any more! 

In parting, even from persons for whom we have no particular 


126 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


liking, we feel some degree of sorrow; we find they had a hold 
on us of which we were not till then aware; sometimes we 
even watch the passing traveller with an almost painful in- 
terest, arising from the very fact that we shall probably never 
see him again; but when we part from those we love, especially 
if there be few who love us, few whom we love, the burden is 
increased a thousand-fold. How, at such times, 


‘Comes, like a planet’s transit o’er the sun,” 


a shadow over all the world! and for a time, in “the waste of 
feelings unemployed,” we cease to build about us the walls of 
hope ; for, as there is no glory in the grass, and no splendor in 
the flower, only the expulsive power of a new affection can 
bring back the sunshine. 

“T hope,” said Mr. Heaton, as he took leave of Mills, “I 
hope, young man, you may never go to jail: a Heaton was 
never in jail, sir, never;” and having delivered himself of this 
speech, the longest he was ever known to make, he took up his 
axe—he always kept it in one corner of the best room—and pro- 
ceeded to the woods. He had no time to spend in useless 
ceremonies, 

It was now Mrs. Heaton’s turn to take leave, and taking the 
proffered hand, much as she would have taken the broomstick, 
she hoped he would remember the advice of Joseph Heaton. 
But the frank grasp of Samuel seemed to impart to him some- 
thing of its own strength; and the cordial “ good-bye” and 
“God bless you” came to him like a benediction. 

Poor Mary—there were a thousand kind wishes for his hap- 
piness in her heart; but she had no words, and turning away, 
she hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears, that made 
tremulous the lip which whispered, “ You are a good, kind 
_ girl, Mary, and may Heaven bless you!” ‘ 

Defiant of the cold, blue eyes of her mother, Annie tied on 
her bonnet, and announced her intention of accompanying Mills 
as far as the elm-tree. For some minutes they walked on in 
silence, for the hearts of both were full, and the elm-tree was 
reached almost before they had interchanged a word. Pausing 
in the shadow that fell thin and brokenly across the road, and 


ANNIE HEATON. 127 


taking in his the trembling hand of Annie, he said, “ My past 
life has been a very hard one, and perhaps I have sometimes 
thought it more so than it was; for it seems to me, now, that I 
could be almost happy there, in the old house which I used to 
think so desolate. Yes, I'am sure I could be happy any where 
with you.” 

“ You think so now,” replied the young girl, half mournfully, 
half reproachfully, “ but after you have been gone a little while 
you will forget me. No one remembers me or loves me long ; 
and, indeed, there is no reason why they should. I am not 
pretty, nor accomplished, nor attractive in any way ;” and with 
tears starting to her eyes, she turned away, and would have 
left him, but that, drawing her to his bosom, and kissing her 
cheek and forehead, he told her how much her doubts of his 
fidelity did him wrong. He had nothing, he said, to live for 
but her, and he would live for her and be worthy of her. In 
five years—five little years—he would come back, and they 
would be so happy! 

“ And you will think about me, sometimes ?” 

“Often; and I know, dear Annie, you will think of me also; 
and whenever life seems weary and hopeless, forget not the 
happiness that waits for us in the future.” 

“T will think of you always, love you always, pray for you 
always: you know that, Mills,” she said, “ you know it well ;” 
and placing in his hand a small package, she told him not to open 
it till he reached the place of his destination: “ It will at least 
remind you of me.” 

He placed it in his bosom, kissed, passionately, the now un- 
resisting lips, and, with a “God bless you !” falteringly uttered, 
was gone; and there in the thin shadow of the elm stood the 
almost heart-broken girl, watching his receding form. 

Once, and only once, he paused, looked back, and seeing her 
still standing just as he left her, turned quickly away, and was 
soon hidden by a winding of the road from her view. 

“My dear sister!” said Mary, running to meet her as she 
returned, “do not cry: it makes me so sad to see your tears !” 
and putting her arm about her neck she did all she could to 
soothe and encourage her; and whether she was or was not 


© 


128 . OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


soothed and encouraged, she seemed to be so, and from that 
day went about her household tasks much as usual; but though 
she oftener smiled that sad smile, her step was more listless, 
her thin cheek more colorless, than before. And the time wore 
on. ‘The last leaves faded off from the woods, that rose, naked 
and desolate, against the cold sky.; the cattle stood shivering 
about the stack-yards; and the winds moaned in the apple- 
trees at the door, all day and all night; then came the snows 
drifting far and near; and it was dreary and desolate winter. 
The hickory logs crackled and glowed on the hearth-stone. 
Mrs. Heaton busied herself with her knitting. Mr. Heaton 
mended the old harness, and repaired the farming implements 


against the coming spring. They should have, he often said, to ~ | 


work harder now ; Binder had been of some use to them, and 
now they must depend upon themselves. The Heatons had 
always made enough to keep out of jail. 

During the winter, Samuel, a youth of nineteen, and Mary, 
went to the district school, so that all domestic care devolved 
on Annie. For her there was no school-time and no holiday. 
She had, her father was accustomed to tell her, more learning 
than her mother, and could not do half so much work. Books 
would not keep any body in bread. Samuel, in a spirit of un- 
bounded liberality, he designed to educate: that is, to send him 
to school for three months every winter, till he should be 
twenty-one. At the end of that time, if education could do any 
good, he hoped Samuel could take care of himself. But 
Samuel usually forgot, in the course of the nine months of hard 
labor, what he learned in the three devoted to study. And so 
each succeeding winter they plodded over pretty much the 
same ground. But, notwithstanding their slight educational ad 
vantages, the children of Mr. Heaton were not without very re- 
spectable acquirements, obtained, it is true, “in the sharp 
school of want,” for they had never a sufficiency of any thing 
save coarse food; but naturally intelligent and observant, and 
disposed to avail themselves of every opportunity for the ac- 
quisition of knowledge, they were, to a degree, self-educated. 

And all this while Mills had not been heard of. One day, 
when her father was going to the post-town, or when, from 


ANNIE HEATON. 129 


sundry indications, she suspected such to be his intention, 
Annie, after various efforts, gathered courage to ask him if he 
would inquire at the post-office for a letter for her. He made 
no answer—did not even look up from his work, which was the 
smoothing of an ax-helve with a broken piece of glass; and 
after waiting some time for an answer, she resumed her inter. 
rupted task, wondering if he heard her, and if he did, if he 
would do as she desired; and avhether there would be a letter. 
But the solution of none of these wonders being possible, she 
tried to wait patiently. ‘For three hours he was busily engaged. 
with the ax-helve, turning it from side to side, and smoothing 
the same places over and again. At the end of that time, how- 
ever, cutting his hand on the piece of broken glass, he took up 
his hat, and hastily left the house; and Annie, half glad of the 
accident, for she thought he would delay his going no longer— 
called to him, “Stop, father! let me get a piece of linen, and 
bandage your hand: only see how it is bleeding !” but taking 
no notice whatever of the kindly offer, he hurried toward the 
barn, to get the horse. Annie thought “he is going !” and her 
heart beat quicker. 

After an hour, however, when she began to think he would 
soon be home again, he entered the house, not having been 
away, took up the paper, and began reading at the first article, 
with the evident intention, as his custom was, of reading it all. 
The clock struck four: “there is not time to go before tea,” 
thought Annie; “I will prepare it early, and perhaps he will go 
afterward.” Acting upon this suggestion, she had partially 
effected her arrangements, when Mary came from school, and 
with her face all aglow, inquired if her father had been to the 
office. 

“No,” said Annie; “and he is not going ;’ 
his very provoking conduct. 

“[’]] see about that: there is a letter there, and you shall 
have it.” 

“ ]Jow do you know there is a letter ?” 

“ Because I feel it in my heart; and I intend to see it with my 
eyes. Now, what are we out of?” and running to the pantry, 
she rumaged through boxes and bottles, exclaiming, directly, 

6* 


> and she related 


130 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“Good! here is no saleratus, and only two or three drawings 
of tea! Where is mother?” and away she ran to the milk 
house, saying, “ Mother, father is going to the village, and we 
are out of saleratus and tea. Shall I tell him to get them 2?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Heaton. “It seems to me weare out very 
soon. ‘Tell him to get a quarter of tea, and ten cents’ worth of 
saleratus.” 

“I don’t care how little!” theught Mary ; and hurrying back, 
she said to her father, “if you are going to the village, mother 
wants you to get some tea and saleratus,” 

“Mother can make known her own wants,” said that gentle- 
man, and continued reading. 

“ Mother told me to tell you,” said Mary, determined not to 
be baffled; “and I don’t know as there is tea enough for 
supper.” ' 

Now Mr. Heaton liked a cup of tea, and Mary knew she had 
resorted to the last means in her power, and so withdrew, feel- 
ing, too, that he would make no motion while she observed 
him. After some further delay, and when the supper arrange- 
ments were nearly completed, he set out. It was long after 
dark before he returned. They had waited two hours for him ; 
the biscuits were nearly cold, and heavy, and every body, and 
Annie in especial, out of patience. At last he came; but it 
was some time before his horse was cared for. Then, laying 
aside his great-coat, he seated himself before the fire, and 
spreading his hands over the blaze, waited till twice or thrice 
called, before going to the table. Annie looked inquiringly at 
Mary, and Mary at Annie, but neither ventured to ask what 
both were so anxious to know; and the supper was concluded 
in silence. 

“If he has a letter forme,” thought Annie, “he will certainly 
give it to me; but he has none; I am sure he has not.” But 
to Mary the suspense had become intolerable, and taking up 
the sugar-bowl, to remove from the table, she said, “ Father, 
did you go to the post-office?” After a minute’s silence, he re- 
plied that he did, but said nothing further. Toward the close 
of the evening, however, he arose, and taking up his great-coat, 
began fumbling in the pockets. Both the girls were on tiptoe, 


ANNIE HEATON. 131 


but destined to disappointment; for, taking thence the little 
packages of tea and saleratus, he resumed his seat. Despair 
came down on the hearts of the sisters, and they sat before the 
fire in solemn silence till the evening was quite spent; that is, 
till Mrs. Heaton covered the embers. 

“Come, girls,” said Mr. Heaton, “don’t be wasting candles 
to-night and sunlight in the morning ;” whereupon he and his 
spouse retired. 

“Ah, Mary!” said Annie, when they were gune, “ you said 
there was a letter.” 

“And I believe there is,” said Mary; “father, Ithought, was 
half disposed to hand it to you, when he took the tea from his 
pocket; he had something in his hand, once, [am sure;” and 
seizing the great-coat, she thrust her hand, first in one pocket, 
then in the other. Annie was smiling her old, sad smile, and 
looking at Mary, who, sure enough, drew forth a letter, and 
holding it up to the light, exclaimed, exultingly, “ Post-paid! 
‘Miss Annie Heaton,’ etc.” 

“O, let me see!” exclaimed Annie, eagerly. “ Yes, it is his 
writing! No, it is a much fairer hand; it can not be his.” 

“ Break the seal, and see,” said Mary, impatiently. 

But, as if to torment herself to the last, Annie -continued 
turning it in the light, and examining it inevery point of view. 
Mary trimmed the light, and drew her chair close to that of 
Annie, who, unsealing the letter, read as follows : 


- “Dearest Anniz,—lI am sitting in a pleasant little room in 
the Academy ; for, you must know, I am become a student. 
Before me is a table, covered with books, papers, and manu- 
scripts, finished and unfinished. The fire is burning brightly in 
the grate, and I am content—almost happy. But to whom am 
I indebted for all this happiness? Ah, Annie! that little pack- 
age you gave me at parting! How shall I ever repay you? 
I will not trouble you now by relating my hard experience for 
two months after leaving you; for, during that time, I did not 
unseal the package, which I looked at daily, wondering what it 
could contain, and pleasing myself with various conjectures. 
At last, one night, I opened it, and, to my joy and sorrow, dis- 


182 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


covered its contents to be what only the most adverse fortune 
could have compelled me to avail myself of. But, with a 
sense of humiliation, I did make use of your self-sacrificing 
generosity. Dear Annie! what do I not owe to you? I still 
keep the envelope; and, when I return, I intend to bring you 
the precise amount, as a bridal present, which you have so 
kindly, so considerately bestowed on me. Close application, 
this session, will enable me to teach for a part of the time; so 
that hereafter I shall be able to rely on myself. I have some 
glorious plans for the future, but none, Annie, disconnected 
with you. Every exertion that is made, shall be with reference 
to the future that must be ours. And do you think of me 
often? or ever? Ah, I will not wrong you by the inquiry ! 
I know you do. Well, hope on. Time, faith, and energy, will 
do for us every thing. And is Mary the same merry-hearted 
girl? I hope so. For my sake, tell her she must love you 
very kindly. And Samuel—does he miss me, or ever speak 
of me? He will find some memento, I think, that may serve 
to remind him of me, in that cabinet of curiosities, the cider- 
mill. As for Mr. Joseph Heaton, I have no doubt but that he 
has ‘ kept out of jail.” Forgive me, Annie, that there are per- 
sons whose wrongs I can not quite forget. I was greatly edified 
last Sabbath by a discourse on forgiveness. The clergyman, 
young and handsome—Mary, I think, would have fallen in love 
with him—spoke with an earnestness indicating a conviction of 
the truth of his doctrine, which was, that we are no where in 
the Scriptures required to forgive our enemies. Even Christ, 
he said, only prayed for his enemies, inasmuch as they were 
ignorant: ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ 
This idea was curious, and to me new; and I suffered my mind 
to be relieved, without inquiring very deeply into the theology. 
Forgive this little episode. I did not intend it, but know that [ 
shall not feel myself bound to forgive you in this world or the 
next, if you forget to love me. It is night—late—and I must 
close—not to save candles, Annie, but that some sleep is neces- 
sary. I shall perhaps dream of you.” 


And with some tender and impassioned words, and promises 


ANNIE HEATON. : 133 


to write often, entreaties of punctual responses, and assurances 
_ of unending devotion, the letter closed. 

Lighter than it had been for a long while, was the heart of 
Annie Heaton that night and the next day, and for many a day 
thereafter. Through her agency the way had been brightened, the 
wishes facilitated, for one dearer to her than all else in the world. 
Annie bore the name of her maternal grandmother, and for this 
honor the good old lady, on her death-bed, did solemnly be- 
queath and give to her most beloved granddaughter Annie, a 
silver watch, which had been the property of her deceased hus- 
band. This bequest, not, it is true, in the fashion of our days, 
was, nevertheless, of some value. A thousand little schemes, 
all based on this legacy, Annie, at different times had revolved 
in her mind. None, however, had been put in execution; and 
when she saw Binder dismissed friendlessly on the world, her 
woman’s instinct was quick to suggest that it might be of use 
to him; and, through means of this—trifle as it was—his pre- 
sent fortunate position had been obtained. What a crown of 
beauty, hiding away from remembrance a thousand weaknesses 
and frailties, making bright the saddest eyes, and sweet the 
faintest smile, is the love of woman! What were home with- 
out it! what were life, what the world, or what all we conceive 
of heaven without it ! 

Late one afternoon of the summer which followed the opening 
of this simple history, as the two girls sat together in the sha- 
dow of one of the apple-trees, on the portico—one reading the 
painfully interesting story of Eugene Aram, the other attaching 
a knot of bright ribbon to a snowy and carefully crimped frill, 
which, by way of trying the effect, she occasionally put round 
her neck, smiling, as she did so, in a way that indicated no very 
deep absorption in the tale to which she pretended she was 
listening—their attention was arrested by the sudden drawing 
up of a very handsome equipage before the gate. The new- 
comers—a middle-aged, self-sufficient looking man, in specta- 
cles, and a pale-faced woman, slightly lame, wearing a dress of 
black, and inordinately heavy and large earrings—proved to 
be relations of Mrs. Heaton, residents of one of the eastern 
cities, wealthy, and what is termed fashionable people, who, 


134 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


now visiting the neighboring town, had taken a fancy to ride 
into the country, regale themselves with bread and milk, and 
see how prospered their poor connexions. | 

Mrs. Heaton, not a little proud of their appearance, received 
them with unusual courtesy, laying her best table-cloth, and 
untying the honey-jar. Mr. Heaton was not slow in imparting 
to them the fact that he had enough to keep him out of jail ; to 
which the gentleman in spectacles said, “O, yes, sir; yes, sir; 
we should think so.” The lame lady, “ Yes, indeed,” and Mrs, 
Heaton, that “ Joseph had enough, she was sure—if he hadn’t 
quite so much as some folks—to keep him out of jail.” “ Cer- 
tainly, madam, certainly,” said the gentleman in spectacles ; 
and the lame lady repeated, “Certainly.” 

Annie, she scarce knew why, felt half insulted by this visit. 
Their air, manner, even their dress, indicated a strata of society 
so different from hers—so superior, as she felt, to hers, that she 
was dissatisfied with herself, and dissatisfied, of course, with 
them. All their affable overtures she regarded as condescen- 
sions, and received them with ungracious reserve. “They 
would not like me, do as I would, and I will make no effort to 
please them.” Accordingly, she kept apart from them, bitterly 
repeating to herself, | 


‘“¢ Where soil is, men grow, 
Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me 
There is no depth to strike in.” 


Annie was a dull girl, they thought, suited to her position; 
but Mary was sprightly—quite pretty—and it was a pity she 
had not greater advantages! She, of course, was delighted, 
when, toward the conclusion of their visit, she was invited to 
accompany them home. Mr. Heaton said “ Mary was of little 
use; Annie would do more work without her;” and Mrs. 
Heaton concurred, “ Yes; Annie would do better without her.” 
Mary said, “It would not be much harder for one than both.” 
So it was determined she should go. Such little preparations 
as could be were soon made. Annie, wiping tears from her _ 
eyes, looked over her own scanty wardrobe, and selected what- 
ever was better than the rest, saying, “‘'Take these, too, Mary ; 
I shall not need them; I shall never go from home, now.” 


ANNIE HEATON. 185 


When the motes were dancing in the sunbeams that stretched 
from the western woods to the old house, Annie was alone. 
Dimmer and dimmer fell the shadows; darker and darker the 
night ; and dimmer and darker than either were her thoughts; 
when her reverie was broken by Samuel, whom she beheld, 
pale, and staggering toward her, with one hand bandaged in his 
pocket handkerchief, through which the blood was streaming, 
held up in the other. “Oh, Samuel! Samuel!” she said, run- 
ning to meet him and supporting him into the house, “ what is 
the matter? what have you done ?” 

He had been reaping in the harvest-field, when a slip of the 
sickle had nearly severed two of the fingers of his hand. Wrap- 
ping his handkerchief about it as he best might, he started to 
go to the house, when, seeing a gay equipage at the gate, he was 
impelled to stop. His natural bashfulness, always painfully 
embarrassing, was increased a thousand-fold by the remem- 
brance of his torn straw hat and patched trowsers; and taking 
some sheaves for a pillow, he lay down in the shadow of some 
briers, to await the departure of the guests, which not occurring 
till nearly night, he was, as may be supposed, almost fainting 
from loss of blood, on reaching the house. The village doctor 
_ was sent for, and the fingers amputated; and the next morning 
Samuel was burning with a fever, that grew more fierce and 
dangerous the next day, and the next, and the next. For six 
long weeks Annie was his constant watcher and attendant. At 
the end of that time he began to grow better; but her own 
overtaxed strength gave way, and for her sick-bed there were 
no kind hands, True, her mother did what she thought her 
duty ; but duty, with her, required punctual attendance on all 
domestic affairs, to the neglect of her sick child. “If you want 
any thing, Annie,” she would say, “you can call me. I can 
do no good by staying here ;” and so the poor girl lay alone 
frequently for hours. 

She had nothing to live for, she often said; no desire to live 
yet at the end of three months she began slowly to recover, and, 
at the end of six, was quite restored to health, though with the 
loss of her long black tresses, and with partial blindness. Some- 
times she was cheered by a letter from Mills, who always wrote 


136 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


kindly, but, as the years wore by, spoke less often of the future, } 
and less definitely. He had left the Academy, and engaged in © 
some mercantile pursuit, which promised better’ for the future — 
than he had ever dared to hope. So the time passed on, and — 
the summer faded into the autumn of his return. Mary was — 
coming, too. What a happy meeting they would have! and 
Annie, despite her distrustful and desponding nature, gave her — 
heart once more to hope. 

Mary came first. Scarcely might you recognise, in the well- 
bred, showily dressed woman, with her shoulders so graceful in 
their contour, covered only with a flood of ringlets, and her fair 
round arms, gleaming with bracelets, the simple country maiden ~ 
of five years ago. 

“Do not, Annie, quite crush me,” she said, as, on her arrival, 
she drew herself, coldly, almost haughtily, from her embrace. 
From that hour she had no need of similar reproach. 

“In a week more,” thought Annie, “ Mills will be here, and 
I shall find consolation ;” and a long week was gone, and the 
long, long anticipation was over. Mills was come; but was he- 
the same Mills from whom she parted in the broken shadows 
of the old elm? Was her dream realized? From their first 
meeting his manner to her was kindly, very kindly, but un- 
satisfactory. He spoke often of his deep indebtedness to her, | 
of his everlasting gratitude, but said little of the future—nothing 
definite. His time, in fact, was so occupied with rambling through 
the beautiful autumn woods, playing at graces and the like, 
with her sister, that he had little time for serious thought. 

One day, seeing them seated together under an orchard tree, 
Annie tied on her bonnet, and went out to join them. She 
walked softly, thinking to surprise them; and as she came 
near, Mills, coqueting the while with one of the bright, graceful 
curls of Mary, said, “I wish, Mary, that Annie were more like 
you; she is quite too staid and serious; but I suppose she 
feels the loss of earlier attractions. And, Mary, I wish you 
would give her some lessons in the mysteries of the toilet : 
that bright-colored dress of hers is positively shocking !” , 

Annie waited to hear no more. The last illusion of her 
dream was past. And when Mary’s visit at home was ended, 


ANNIE HEATON. 137 


she was not surprised to hear Mills announce his intention to 
accompany her back. Only for one moment her heart beat 
quicker, and hope threw over her its mocking glow, when, as 
he took leave, Mills put into her hand the selftsame envelop 
which inclosed her parting gift five years before; but, alas! it 
contained only a note of similar value, reiterations of gratitude 
for the past, and many kind hopes and wishes for the future—a 
mockery all ! 

And Annie Heaton lived on—hopelessly, aimlessly. Few 
persons knew her—none loved her. All that autumn, and for 
many succeeding autumns, she saw the moonlight stealing 
through her window, gleaming and trembling on the opposite 
wall, and at last fading out before the darkness, thinking ever, 
“ Yes, it was like my hopes !” 


138 - OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


PETER HARRIS. 


Ir was the middle month of the autumn. A _ blue, smoky 
haze hung all day over the withering woods—there a cluster of 
maples standing against the horizon, with their bright, yellow 
leaves looking like a cloud of gold—here an oak, towering above 
its fellows, with a few tufts of crimson among its still green 
foliage ; and stunted gui trees, with their shining red leaves 
clinging thickly yet, glowing all along the hills ike pyramids 
of fire. Loaded wains were driven slowly homeward from 
orchards and cornfields, heaped high with bright apples or yel- 
low corn; the barns were full of new hay ; every thing beto- 
kened plenty. | 

Along the dusty thoroughfare, toward the close of one of 
the mildest days of th» season, a little hard-featured man was 
driving, in a rude, unpainted cart. His dress seemed to indi- 
cate a person suddenly overtaken by a frosty morning, without 
having made any preparation. Over his slightly gray hair he 
wore a fur cap, evidently a boy’s; and his coat, a great deal 
too large for him, was of summer-cloth, shining from long wear, 
and from its fashion probably never intended for him. His 
trowsers, much too short, were of a blue and white cotton plaid, 
and on his feet he wore heavy shoes, one of them partly cut 
away toward the toe, probably for the benefit of corns. He 
wore no hose whatever, and from the leather-like color of the — 
instep, apparently, never had worn any. His horse, lean and 
shaggy, seemed quite run out with years and service, and, from 
a constant inclination to turn to one side, most likely blind in 
one eye. His master, nevertheless, appeared to experience 


PETER HARRIS. 189 


much pleasure in goading him forward, by means of a large 
withe, cut from a thorn. After each application, the poor beast 
trotted forward for a few minutes, and then, suffering his head 
to droop almost to the ground, relapsed into a walk, when a 
renewed application of the whip, and a sudden tightening of the 
rein, again urged him onward. 

Sitting by the old man was a little pale-faced boy. His 
clothes, much too thin for the season, were patched with differ- 
ent colors, and ragged still. His hat was of white fur, and had, 
as it seemed, originally been too large, but by means of scis- 
sors, needle and thread, and the rude ingenuity, probably, of 
some female hand, had been made to assume a reduced size. 
He wore no coat or jacket, but, instead, a faded shawl was 
wrapped about his shoulders, the ends of which, crossing in 
front, were tied in a close knot behind. The seat on which he 
sat was much too high for his convenience; and his little naked 
feet, as they rode forward, dangled about in most uncomforta- 
ble sort. 

“ Well, my son,” said the old man, breaking silence for al- 
most the first time during the journey, as he suffered his jaded 
horse to stand still before an avenue bordered with elms, and 
leading to a white cottage which stood on an eminence a lit- 
tle way from the road—“ Well, my son, this is your uncle Ja- 
son’s; this is tobe yourhome. You will never come to much,” 
he continued, lifting the boy from the cart—“ so very puny and 
wite-faced ; but ve done my duty by you, the same as if you 
had been, like your father, smart and woluble of tongue. Yes, 
this is a handsome prowision I’ve made for you ;” and taking 
the child by the hand, and walking so fast that it required the 
little fellow to run, they proceeded up the avenue. ‘Two little 
boys, in bright jackets set off with black buttons, and velvet 
caps with heavy tassels falling on one side, were trundling 
hoops in the path. On seeing the new-comers, one of them 
called out to the coachman, who sat near, watching their sport, 
“ Jchn! Oh, John! look quick! here comes an old man leading 
an Ingen boy!” 

“Hush!” said John, coming forward, and pushing the boy, a 
little rudely, one side; “more like you yourself are an Ingen! 


140 ) OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


How do you do, my little man?” he continued, taking the hand 
of the strange child. 

The little old man then asked John whether Jason Harris 
were at home; and being told that he was, continued to say, 
that he was the brother of Jason, but that he had been less for- 
tunate than he, and had now come to make him a present of the 
little “‘ wite-faced boy.” 

When they had nearly reached the house, he paused and said, 
“Here, John, or whatever your name is, take this boy into the 
house, and tell Jason that his poor old brother is about to cross 
the Rocky Mountains, as a trapper, and that he gives this little 
fellow to him;” and resigning the trembling boy to John, he 
turned away, and mounting his little cart, drove on. 

Poor little boy! he felt very strange and uncomfortable in 
that great, fine house. He had never seen so fine a house, with 
such bright carpets and curtains; and his new uncle, who was 
a proud, haughty man, made him almost tremble with fear, so 
that he could hardly find words to answer, when he said, 

“ What is your name, boy ?” 

The little boy said, meekly, that his name was Peter Harris. 

On hearing this, the two little boys in bright jackets laughed 
immoderately, saying that Peter was the name of the black boy 
that tended their cows. 

“Well, boy,” continued the stiff man, “since my little boys 
laugh at your name, we shall have to call you Pete. How old 
are you, Pete ?” 

At this, the two boys ne louder than before, one of them 
saying to the other, 


“Peter, Peter! pumpkin-eater |” 


Peter crossed his hands behind him, and said that he was 
eight years old. 

“TI suppose you have never been to school, Pete. May-be 
you don’t know what a school is ?” 

“No, sir,” said Peter; “I have never been to school; but I 
know what it is, and I should like to go.” 

“T suppose,” said the uncle, “ you would like a great many 
things.” 


PETER HARRIS. 141 


Peter said, “J would like a great many things,” and the 
whole family laughed outright. 

* Do not,” said Mrs. Harris, checking her laughter, and 
speaking as though she had not laughed at all, “do not act as 
foolish as the boy.” 

Peter did not know how he had acted foolish, but thinking 
that he must have acted so, began to cry. 

“What a good warm fire hickory wood does make!” said 
Mrs. Harris, stirring the embers; but Peter felt nothing of the 
genial warmth, as he sat a long way from the fire, shivering, 
partly with fear and partly with cold, wiping away the tears 
with his faded shawl. 

“What makes you act so foolishly ?” continued Mrs. Harris, 
who was a very stately lady ; “sitting there, and crying like a 
ealf!” and then, turning to her husband, added, “I hope you 
feel better. You have made the boy cry. You ought, I am 
sure, to be very grateful [a pious woman was Mrs. Harris| for 
the privilege of snatching him like a brand from the burning ;” 
and she called Peter to her, saying, “I suppose, my little 
heathen, you have had little moral or religious culture.” 

Peter, trying in vain to cease crying, said that he did not 
know. 

“Well, you would like to be very grateful to your uncle and 
me, would you not ?” 

Peter said he did not know what grateful was. 

_ “Poor heathen! I suppose not,” said the aunt. “ You must 
feel as if the consecration of all your energies to your uncle and 
me could never repay us. You will feel so, will you not?” 

Here Peter was quite at a loss. He knew no more than he 
knew what grateful was, what his energies were, or how to con- 
secrate them to his uncle and aunt; but he said he would try. 

“There must be no ¢ry about it. You must do it, or be 
whipped every day, till you do;” and calling her little son, who 
sat on the floor, sticking pins in the paws of her lap-dog, the 
lady told him to come and teach his poor little heathen cousin 
to say, 


‘¢ Now I lay me down to sleep ;” 


142 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


but the boy said he did not know it, and continued at his work 
of torment. After some further instruction, Mrs. Harris called 
Sally, the maid, and told her to take Peter out to John’s room; 
he would lodge there. 

“ Shall I get him some supper before I take him there?” said 
the maid. 

“Tt would not be worth while,” Mrs. Harris said; he had 
no doubt eaten fruit enough to keep him from being fhungiy3 : 
and she added, addressing Peter, “You don’t want any thing to 
eat, do you ?” : 

Peter said that he had not had any dinner, and that he was 
hungry. | 

“ Tl] warrant it,” said his aunt; “ children never know what 
they want. You may give him a piece of bread, Sally—a very 
little piece, without any butter. I don’t think butter is good 
for children—not for little boys, especially.” 

Sally took the child into the kitchen, and cutting a large slice 
from a fresh loaf, buttered it nicely, saying, as she gave it to 
Peter, “I like to see bread buttered smooth, don’t you?” and — 
taking the candle from the table, and holding her hand between 
it and the wind, so as to prevent its going out, they made their 
way to John’s room, which was a little, uncomfortable apart- 
ment over the stable; but in one corner a bright fire was burn- 
ing; and John said his straw bed was wide enough for them 
both; and drawing up one of his two chairs, gave it to Peter, 
who sat down before the blaze, and ate his bread and butter, 
feeling quite at home. 

John, who was really very kind-hearted, gave Peter a long 
piece of twine and a very red apple. He then took from his 
pocket several little slips of paper, which seemed to have been 
cut from newspapers at different times, and stirring the embers 
till they blazed brightly, for he had no candle, sat down on a 
peck measure close to the hearth, and, by way of amusing his 
little guest, read : 


“A drove of twenty buffaloes recently passed through one of the western 
cities. They were as gentle to drive as cows.” 


He then asked Peter if he had ever seen a buffalo, telling 


* 


PETER HARRIS. 143 


him they were a kind of wild oxen, that lived in the western 
woods and prairies, where they were often seen in herds of from 
twenty to fifty ; and taking another slip, he read: 


“We have always liked short pie-crust; but we saw a woman making a 
pie, the other day, without crust enough to cover the dish. This we thought 
quite too short.” 


At this Peter laughed, and John laughed, too, as heartily as 
though he had never before read it, saying, it was the shortest 
pie-crust he ever heard of. Unfolding another scrap, he read: 


“ Of all the old maids in the world, and their name is legion, the oldest is, 
undoubtedly, Miss Ann Thrope. The reformers are trying to effect a mar- 
riage, with some hopes of success, they think, betwixt her and one Ben Evo- 
lence; but Ma Levolence is so bitterly opposed, that it is feared the union 
may never take place.” 


John said he had known many old maids who were not 
named Legion, and proceeded to read: 


‘“A man, being watched by a watchman for stealing a watch, watched 
when the watchman was off watch, and with the watch escaped the watch- 
man.” “A fellow named Marks, who was riding a little ass, became so en- 
raged at the stubbornness of the animal, that he threw himself from his 
_ back, with such violence as to dash out his brains, thus making a great ass 


of himself.” 


On looking up, after some further reading, and seeing Peter 
fast asleep in his chair, John folded and put away the scraps, 
and taking up the child, laid him carefully in bed. 


One morning late in November, Peter, dressed in the cast- 
off clothes of his little cousin, and bearing on one arm a small 
blue-and-red basket, in which was a piece of apple pie and a 
_ primer, set out for the district school, a distance from home of 
over a mile. All the girls and boys looked so hard at the 
“new scholar,” that Peter, who was naturally a timid child, 
could hardly speak, when the master, a tall, dark-faced man, 
called him to his desk, and asked him the following questions : 

“You come to this school to be taught the rudiments of an 
English education, I suppose?” 


144 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Peter knew he came to be taught something, and tremblingly 
answered, “ Yes, sir.” 

“¢ Ves, sir, if you please,’ ” said the teacher; and Peter said, 
“ Yes, sir, if you please.” 7 

“ Where do you live?” 

** At uncle Jason’s, if you please.” 

“Why, boy, you must be a numskull, You must say, ‘if 
you please,’ if it’s appropriate. What is your name 2” 

“ Peter Harris, if you please, if it’s appropriate.” 

“The boy is a blockhead!” said the master; and boys and 
girls, putting their books before their faces, joined in a general 
titter. 

“Come, come! that will do!” said the master, looking over 
the school, and frowning with great severity. Then taking a 


limber switch from his desk, and shaking it over the head of — 


Peter, in a menacing manner, he told him, that all’the scholars 
got whipped who did not mind and study their lessons. He 
then told him to go to his seat, and study his book. 


This seat was a high, wooden bench, without any back; and | 


Peter found sitting there, for four hours at once, very tiresome, 


especially as he did not know a from 6, and, consequently, 
could not study. After a while, he was called to say his lesson, ~ 


but not knowing one of the letters, was made to stand ona | 
high stool for ten minutes, and all the children were required to | 
point their fingers at him, the master laying his watch on the | 
desk, to see the time. At its expiration, he was sent back to. | 


his seat, and told to see if he could study now ; but he could 


not study any better than Leia: and when the boys went out — 


to play, he was “kept in.’ 


At noon-time Peter was told, that boys who would not study — 3 
must not eat; and taking his pie from the little blue-and-red — 


basket, the master fed it to a pig that chanced to be near the 
door. Merrily rang the laughter of the boys without; but not | 
even while the sweeping filled the house with an impenetrable — 


cloud of dust, was Peter allowed to leave his seat, one of the — 


larger boys being stationed at the door as sentinel, while the i 


master went to dine. 
Toward the middle of the afternoon, weary and exhausted, _ 


PETER HARRIS. 45 


the poor boy was bending down over his book, when the master 
said, “ Peter Harris, have you got a weakness in the chest? I 
judge, from your posture, that you must be afflicted with weak- 
ness in the chest. Sit upright, sir! and if I catch you bending 
in that way again, I will strengthen you by an application on 
the back.” 3 ) 

For a while Peter did sit upright, but, forgetting at last, sank 
down in his old position; on which he was called to the master, 
and asked if he did not think he deserved a whipping. “I take 
no pleasure in chastising you,” he said; “but I feel it to be my 
duty.” He ther. ordered Peter to take off his coat, and in- 
flicted upon him a merciless beating. 

When school was dismissed at night, a southerly gust was 
blowing, and the sky quite covered with black clouds, indicat- 
ing a speedy approach of rain; but Peter was detained half an 
hour after the rest, so that it was almost dark, and some drops 
already falling, when he was permitted to go home. When he 
reached there, he was drippingly wet; but John made a bright 
fire, and bringing forward the peck measure, told Peter to sit 
down and dry his clothes, while he went to the kitchen and pro- 
cured for him some supper. Presently he returned with a dish 
of warm toast, which he said Sally had kindly sent; but Peter, 
still sitting on the peck measure, in a cloud of steam, said that 
his head ached very much—that he was not hungry, and would 
rather go to bed. 

The night was stormy ; the driving winds howled loud, and 
the rain beat through the roof till the straw bed was quite wet, 
so that, in the morning, Peter had a worse head-ache, together 
with a sore throat and a burning fever. John procured all the 
remedies he could, and watched by the bed as much of the 
time as he could spare; but he was often obliged to leave him, 
and the poor boy lay, sometimes for hours, moaning and fret- 
ting alone. 

When Mrs. Harris was told of the illness of the child, she 
said the ground was too damp to admit of her going to see him, 
but that she would send him another blanket; as to medicine, 
she thought children did not require it, especially little boys. 

A week went by. The wind was blowing roughly down from 


146 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the north; the door shook in its frame, and the branches of an 
old elm swayed to and fro, creaking against the window-panes 
all night. 

Sometimes a flake of snow, drifting through roof or crevice, 
fell on the~ face of little Peter ; but his pale hands, locked 
meekly together, were not lifted ‘* brush it away. The fire 
burned brightly on the hearth. John had drawn the bed close 
before it, and sitting on the peck measure, with his head leaning 
against the foot of the bed, was fast asleep. Dimmer and 
dimmer burned the embers on the hearth; fainter and fainter 
glimmered the shadows on the opposite wall; till they faded 
quite away. 

No call disturbed the worn watcher, and he slept oncxislépt, 
till the gray light of the morning streamed,. broad and cold, 
through the uncurtained window, when, starting up, he went to 
the bedside, bent noiselessly over it for a moment, and turning 
away, brushed some tears from his eyes, saying, as he re- 
kindled the fire, “ Poor little Peter! he will never be sick any 
more,” 


PRET. ee PLT ON 


MARGARET FIELDS. 147 


MARGARET FIELDS. 


I nave read a story of Blake, the painter, that sometimes 
when engaged on a picture, an imaginary being, or the haunt- 
ing memory of a face, unseen perhaps for years, would thrust 
itself between the canvas and his pencil, and force him to 
abandon -his work until the visionary portrait, or whatever it 
was, was sketched. So it is with me this morning: I had other 
scenes in hand, but the story Jam about to write will not be 
put aside, and therefore, as best I may, I will fulfil a sorrowful 
task. 

In one of the many beautiful valleys of the West, not fai 
from Clovernook, stands an old-fashioned cottage, half hidden 
among tall slender-trunked maples, gnarled oaks, and flowing 
elms—spared monuments of the forest growth, of which the 
cool shadows drop on the grass beneath, all the long summer, 
grateful to the little naked feet of the children that frolic there, 
carelessly picking from where they are sunken among the turf 
the round clover blossoms, red and white, and building play- 
yards, with boundaries of slender weeds, and broken bits of 
china for ornament. 

The house, and all that pertains to it, are now falling sadly to 
decay, but the vestiges, here and there, speak of more affluent 
and prosperous days. The paint is washed from the weather- 
boards; the shutters, broken and left without fastening, beat 
backward and forward with every storm, the fences are leaning 
to the ground, and a desolate and ruinous look is everywhere. 
Blue thistles bloom about the meadows, and some straggling 
roses and unpruned lilacs tell where the garden was in other 
times, 


148 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


But my story has little to do with the place as it is now. 1 
must go back a little. Ten years ago, everything around the 
cottage was as bright and pretty as you can imagine, and Mar- 
garet, the sunshine of the house, the brightest and prettiest of 
all Yet she was not beautiful, as most persons estimate 
beauty, having nothing of that physical and showy development 
which is commonly admired; but in her eyes lay a depth of 
tenderness and a world of thought; and in her face was a blend- 
ing of intellectuality and the most exquisite refinement. She was 
now an only child, though she had been one of two children, to 
that time when the buds of childhood are opening to full bloom, 
and a cloud had then swept across her early womanhood. How 
often, as | went to school, after her playmate was gone, have I 
seen her sitting in the shadows of the old trees about the door, 
her hands lying idly on her lap, and her eyes on the ground. 
She was never mirthful, even before the fountain of sorrow had 
been struck open in her heart, by that hand that ne love can 
turn away, but now she was more quiet, and pensive almost to 
melancholy. Her mother had been for years an invalid, and 
one of those restless, querulous, dissatisfied invalids, whom few 
persons find pleasure in attending. Scarcely was Margaret 
suffered to leave her presence half-an-hour at a time; now a 
cup of water was wanted, which only Margaret could bring, 
and when it was brought it was sure to be too hot or too cold 
—not enough, or too much—and then the dear child who was 
gone, was always contrasted with the present in a way to give 
the latter pain. 

Margaret must read to her, and she did by the hour, from 
works she felt no interest in herself. Theological discussions 
were the passion of Mrs. Fields, but the arguments which sup- 
ported her previously established views were the only ones she 
could endure. That the dissenter was annihilated, admitted of 
no doubt, so it was of no use, wasting time over his puerility. 
But at the conclusion of these intermittent and unsatisfactory 
readings, there were no kind words or thanks for Margaret— 
she had read so fast or so slow that her poor mother had had 
little enjoyment. If she stayed at home she was a sad mope, 
so unlike the dear child that was in heaven—if she went abroad, 


MARGARET FIELDS. 149 


she had so little consideration for the stricken and afflicted in- 
valid at home, and was still so unlike the dear departed. Poor 
Margaret! it is no wonder she was sad. 

The summer of which the fading blossoms should bring her 
seventeenth birthday, was come. At the window of her 
mother’s chamber Margaret sat alone, for the invalid had been 
busy with reproaches all the morning, and was fallen asleep. 
The girl was unusually sad—she had been looking across the 
hills to the dark line of woods that skirted the village graveyard, 
_ where the willow trailed, and the now fast-fading violets lay 
about the modest head-stone. She had been looking to that 
spot, not as to an awful end, from which to shrink tremblingly 
away, but rather as to the only spot in which peace, deep and 
eternal, is to be embraced by the over wearied and lonely. I 
would not call thee back, lost one! she said—to front again, it 
may be with unequal strength, the beleaguering hosts that take 
arms against us at our birth—to suffer, to struggle, to hope, 
to fear, to falter, to fail, and to die; I would rather unlock 
the door of thy dark chamber, and cover my eyes forever with 
the silent whiteness of thy shroud. 

Are these strange thoughts for youth and beauty ? for she 
was young, and I remember no face of more loveliness than 
hers; for myself, I do not think them very strange. Her 
father, in attending to the increase of his folds, and the gather- 
ing of his harvests and the enlargement of his threshing-floors, 
forgot his child, and her mother, a troubled and troublesome 
invalid, never spoke to her in any words of tenderness, or called 
her any gentle names. The fountain of her sisterly affection 
had been choked with the dust of death, and that stronger fee]- 
ing, the strongest that attaches mortality to earth, had never 
touched her heart. A time was very close at hand when she 
should hear gladness in the song of the harvester tnat she had 
never heard, and feel a warmth and joyousness in the sunshine 
that had drifted before her coldly as the clouds. Love was 
already brightening in her skies, and a new and beautiful garni- 
ture was presently to adorn her world. Now, as she sat, the 
light fell over the valleys, gilded the hill-tops, shimmered along 
the meadows, played on the window-sill beneath her eyes, and 


150 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


sunk among her long, chestnut lock sunheeded. They are small 
things that make up the sum of human happiness or misery ; a 
smile, or a kind word, may strengthen us for the tasks and 
duties of the day, more than the fresh airs of summer, more 
than the shelter of a broad roof, or daintiest viands, or most 
delicious and inspiring wines. A reproachful glance, any unto- 
ward event, a ruthful conviction, falls on the hands like para- 
lysis, on the heart like mildew; and the landscape fades not so 
much with the slant rains of autumn beating cold against its 
flowers, as for the presence of any of these. 

Beneath the window where Margaret sat, a man was spading 
the fresh earth, and the peculiar and invigorating odor impreg- 


nated all the air. He was singing to himself snatches of old 


songs : 
“Tis merry, tis merry the live-long day 
To work—’tis better to work than play ; 
Tis better to work and to sing as I, 
Than sit with nothing to do, and sigh.” 


Her attention was arrested, and she said, as she resumed the 
task with which she had been occupied, “ You are right, old man, 
sing while you may—there is an end of all our thoughtless 
singing ere we think.” He had thrown up a ridge of earth 
against some roots, to protect them from frost, and brushing 
gray hairs from his forehead, that was wrinkled with care and 
time. he resumed his labor and the song : 


‘Tis merry with singing to earn our bread, 
With the beetle below and the lark o’er head 
And sunshine around us the live-long day, 

For singing and working are better than play.” 


“ Ah, yes,” said Margaret, smiling and taking up her again 
neglected work, “it is better than play.” Her mood was be- 
coming more genial from seeing the gardener’s cheerful labor. 
Presently he was joined by his boy. “Here, take the spade,” 
said he, and lighting his pipe, with a match and flint he carried 
in his pocket, he sat down to smoke, while the youth went on 
with the service, after the manner of his father, yet how differ- 
ently. He was a wiry lad, with yellow curls blowing over his 
eyes, and hands like ill-shapen bones, with a warted and brown 


MARGARET FIELDS. 151 


skin about them. His eyes were yellowish gray, his com- 
plexion, the tint of a blackened rose, and his only clothing a 
shirt of small-specked calico, and blue cotton trowsers. He 
wore no shoes, and as he endeavored to force the spade in the 
ground, constantly bruised and hurt his feet in such way as 
caused repeated exclamations of vexation, after which he would 
pause a moment, and look with dissatisfied scowl] all about him. 
Meantime the old man had leaned against the fence of the 
garden, and with closed eyes seemed to enjoy the fragrant ex- 
halations of his pipe. “Some people have easy times,” said 
the boy, “ding it all!” and walking slily near his father, set up 
the spade in the ground, and then, touching it with his hand 
lightly, caused it to fall and push the pipe from the mouth of 
the smoker, who, starting from his agreeable reverie, gave a 
half-reproachful look to the lad, and one of sorrow to the broken 
pipe, and seizing the spade, resumed his work with more earnest- 
ness, and his song with more unction, than before: “It is better 
to work than play.” 

Having found release from the labor which he seemed not to 
love, the boy stole beneath the window, and on a hollow reed 
began piping a simple air, doubtless for the ear of the fair lady 
above. 

“Ezra,” said her sweet voice, as she leaned from the window, 
“that isa pretty song, but [heard Josiah singing from the garden 
a little time ago ; though his voice was tremulous, he was so tired, 
the song was more cheerful than yours; and if you will take 
his place for an hour, and I am sure you will, your song may 
become happy ashis.” The boy said not a word, overcome, as it 
seemed, by such condescension, but gliding away, he took the 
spade, with some words of apology, from the weary hands of 
the old man, and began working in good earnest without once 
saying, “ding it all,” a favorite exclamation in which his dis- 
satisfaction usually found vent. 

“A pleasant song you have been singing, Josiah,” said Mar- 
garet, as the old man hobbled by towards his own cottage, 
“and this is to pay you ;” handing him from the window a new 
pipe—a very pretty one, as Josiah thought—for he looked at it 
in what seemed a bewilderment of admiration, and said, “ No- 


152 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


body in the sound of the church bell is half so good or half so 
beautiful as Miss Margaret.” “ Ah, you must not give me any 
flattery,” she answered, laughingly, “for I have heard that wiser 
heads than mine have been spoiled thereby, and hereafter I may 
only be giving you presents for the sake of fair words.” 

The happy old man went toward his cottage, happy for that 
he had a new pipe, and also for the new kindness of his son— 
whom, he thought, some supernatural visitant must have in- 
fluenced. While working in the garden with earnestness and 
cheerfulness by no means habitual to him, the ill-natured but 
simple-minded boy looked now and then at the window, where 
Margaret was busy with her sewing, humming the words of 
Josiah—“It is better to work than play.” She was prob- 
ably conscious that the boy was busy beneath the window, but 
she was so much engrossed, that she did not notice the passing 
of the young village clergyman on his accustomed walk. Glad 
to arrest her attention for a moment, even though it were to 
divert it from himself, Ezra gathered, and threw in at the win- 
dow a sprig of rue, saying, “ Look yonder, Miss Fields.” She 
looked in the direction indicated, and the color came rushing 
into her cheeks as she did so, for she saw that her glance was 
observed. The road on which the Fields’ cottage was situated, 
was not the main one, but was what is usually termed a cross- 
road, for the convenience of out of the way farmers, and it 
struck into the more frequented thoroughfare, leading to the 
village on the one hand, and to the city on the other, at the 
distance of about half a mile westward from the cottage; and 
on this road, full of dusty travel, stood, at the distance of a 
quarter of a mile to the south, a large and fashionable house, of 
very red bricks, and with inside blinds of white, a style of finish 
of which no other in the whole neighborhood could boast. 
Here lived Mr. Ralph Middleton, a descendant of one of the 
royalist families of the Revolution, and strongly tinctured with 
aristocratic feeling. He kept the best coach in the county, in 
fact there were but one or two others, and he drove the finest 
horses, bred the best cattle, und was acknowledged the great 
man of all that region; and his acquaintance was esteemed even 
by Deacon White and Doctor Haywood, as an especial honor. 


Per ae 


MARGARET FIELDS. 153 


Often I remember of crossing the fields from school to look 
at the deer in his orchard, and I know now that I felt half 
ashamed and mortified, that we had only two brown calves and 
a flock of sheep and lambs in ours. My deference for the 
Middletons, I am willing to acknowledge, though it humbles 
me, at this distance of time, to know that anything but honest 
integrity should have elicited such feeling. I was by no means 
however so prostrated before them, as were most of my school 
companions, who were glad to talk with James, the black man, 
who tended the cows, and rode to the field on a little sorrel 
poney, to bring them home at night: sometimes carrying little 
Willie Middleton on the saddle before him. My admiration 
was never servile, but I can remember that more than one of my 
playmates would gladly have been deprived of dinner when it 
chanced to be some nicety to which they were not accustomed, 
for the hope of giving it at night to Willie Middleton, though 
he fed it to his dog “ Flora,” or threw it on the ground. 

Sometimes we saw the daughter, Florence Middleton, sitting 
under the orchard trees, with her book—a beautiful girl, else 
my childish fancy interpreted amiss her long golden curls, soft 
blue eyes, and lily complexion. Her dress was always ex- 
quisitely tasteful, nor had the soil of labor embrowned her 
youthful cheek, or hardened her plump little hands, glittering 
with gems, either of which would have bought any of the petty 
estates in the neighborhood. I think her disposition must have 
been exceedingly sweet and amiable, for she sometimes called 
us to her—a rude and noisy tribe, as we were, and showed us 
through the garden—to us a fairy land—gathering flowers for 
us, and telling us their names, which we could not remember, 
but thought long and curious, and supposed were brought from 
across the sea. Toward us she acted, though I know not if such 
were her custom with others, as one confident of ability to 
please. 

Margaret Fields, none of us thought pretty, though from my 
recollections now, she must have been much the prettier of the 
two. Her brown hair was always parted smoothly away from 
her forehead, and her dark eyes had that look of soft and angel 
gentleness, as if half suffused with coming tears. But her 

ne 


154 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


dress of simple muslin, had none of the style belonging to Flo. 
rence’s, it looked as though we ourselves might wear such an 
one some day. ‘Then, too, we had seen her in the little cabin 
of Josiah, when the good dame was disabled with rheumatism 
or toothache, making bread, or scattering crumbs to the chick- 
ens: how could she be either pretty or a fine lady! She was 
punctual in her attendance at church, where, to our regret, we 
never saw Florence, for every Sabbath she went in the coach 
with her father to the city, where, as we heard, the pews were 
nicely cushioned, the aisles carpeted, and the windows stained 
in such a way, as to make the light more beautiful than that 
which streams through sunset clouds. 

From the window where Margaret sat so het reading to 
her querulous mother, or within has call, the white spire of the 
village church was distinctly visible. The pastor, at this time, 
was but lately come to the parish, and in the meanwhile the 
illness and ill-humor of her mother, had prevented her being in 
her accustomed place, so that as the boy Ezra threw the rue in 
her lap, she looked up and saw the young man for the first 
time. “A fair looking personage, is he not?” she said, as with 
one ungloved hand between the gilt leaves of a small volume, 
and one holding a red thistle flower, he passed slowly along— 
not without more than once glancing at the pretty cottage. The 
exclamation of the girl was partly to herself, and partly to 
Ezra, who, leaning upon his spade, was gazing with admiration 
first at the young man and then at the girl. The poor boy 
seemed to feel the vast distance between himself and the cler- 
gyman, and could not repress the exclamations of* ‘ Ding it all! 
blame!” Then, as if some sudden impulse seized him he 
threw aside his spade, and glancing at Margaret, walked hastily 
in the direction taken by the young man. When he had ap- 
proached him within a few steps, he slackened his pace, and ob- 
serving him with the jealous scrutiny of a spy, seemed desirous 
himself of remaining unobserved. Ezra was selfish, for though 
he could work with the most persevering energy, when the pro- 
fits of his labors accrued solely to himself, he declined exertion 
for the benefit of his parents. Nothing but an inordinate love 
of money could overcome his natural indolence, and for hours 


MARGARET FIELDS. 155 


sometimes he would lie basking in the sun, with no occupation 
but his thoughts, the nature of which may be guessed from 
the fact of his position being chosen generally within sight of 
Margaret’s window. ‘The love of the moth for the star! In the 
chamber of the cottage, where he slept, he had picked the plaster 
from the wall, close by the head of the bed, making a place suffi- 
ciently large for the concealment of his purse, which was, in fact, 
the foot of an old gray stocking, in which were hoarded all his 
little earnings, even from the first shilling given him by Deacon 
White, for dropping corn, to the bright gold dollar he received 
for the recovery of Mr. Middleton’s stray cow. After the careful 
survey of the young clergyman, whith I have described, Ezra 
went straight to his humble chamber, and taking the purse from 
its concealment, counted the treasure, with a sort of chuckle, 
and replacing it again, walked the floor, as in agitation. All 
that night was sleepless—passed counting his money or walk- 
ing restlessly to and fro. But day had scarcely dawned ere, 
with the strange purse in one hand and a luncheon of bread and 
meat in the other, he was on his way to the city. Poor boy: 
he was about to do a very foolish thing. Under the window of 
Margaret. he paused for a moment, and looked reverently up, 
and then breaking into an exultant song, walked briskly forward. 


Time went by—the bright morning sun had more than once 
blackened the vine and rose leaves which the night had pre- 
viously stiffened with frost, but with the fading of nature came into 
the heart of Margaret new light, and the haze, dimming the blue 
air of summer, seemed only to make the world more beautiful. 

The young minister had learned to end his walk at the cot- 
tage. If, however, he passed sometimes, extending it to the 
thick woods beyond, merely to see him and know that he was 
well, and that he thought of her, at least, was beautiful sunshine 
in her shady place. Occasionally, too, Margaret accompanied 
him in these walks, and what delightful seasons they were to 
her—how she treasured the flowers thus gathered for her, for 
here and there, in some sheltered nook, a hardy flower might 
still be found. Every word was stored in her heart, no matter 
how trivial—whether of the sunset, or the sea—about the low 


156 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


earth, or the high heavens. Yet there were words sometimes 
uttered more dear to her than any suggested by the presence or 
the aspect of the silent world; nor were his smile, or the tones 
of his tremulous and variable voice, forgotten; but whether 
grave or gay, mournful or encouraging, all were remembered 
and referred to, afterwards. 

Yearning for sympathetic kindness, uneducated in art, and 
simple in nature as Margaret was, is it any marvel that she put 
her hand in that of the young clergyman with the same confi- 
dence she had previously felt in interviews with the gray-haired 


man, who had given to her forehead the baptismal seal? We 


expect the tendrils of the young vine to clasp themselves about 
the nearest support; we expect the flower to unfold itself to 
the kiss of the sun, and to blush beneath the breathing of the 
wind ; and the eS ay yield to the influence of kindness. 
One evening when the young man had spoken more freely 
than was his wont, of himself—of his past history, which had 
not been unmixed with sorrow—and the fountain in her bosom 
was stirred till tears washed the roses from her cheeks, roses 
which his first kiss called back again, more brightly beautiful 
than before—as they lingered over the parting, speaking little, but 
one, at least, feeling much, the dull rumble of wheels over the 
grass-grown road arrested their attention, and presently the gay 
equipage of Mr. Middleton was seen approaching. Very proud 
looked the coachman, of his glittering buttons and the bright 
band on his hat; consequentially complaisant looked Mr. Mid- 
dleton, leaning on the golden head of his cane from the corner 
of his coach; gay and bewitchingly smiling looked Florence, as 
with curls flowing from her little coquettish bonnet, she joy- 
ously kissed the tips of her white kid gloves to Margaret, though 
their salutations had been limited to the simplest civility hither- 
to. “Beautiful! is she not beautiful!” exclaimed the young 
man, with enthusiasm, as the carriage rolled away. “ Very,” 
echoed Margaret ; but the fervor that had been in her tone was 
gone, the eloquent glow was faded from her cheek, and the tears 
she strove to repress, came with tell-tale fulness to her eyes: 
this time only the winds kissed them away—the eyes of the 
clergyman were turned in the direction of the receding coach. 


aaa. pe ee 


MARGARET FIELDS. 157 


“ But what were you saying?” asked Margaret, afier a mo- 
ment’s silence, and putting down her heart with a strong effort. 

‘“‘Nothing,” answered the young man, mechanically; and, 
with an abrupt “good-evening,” he walked hastily toward his 
own home; while alone, in the deepening shadows, and as one 
might have watched the folding of the white wings away from 
Eden, stood the girl. She was recalling their interrupted con- 
versation : 


‘¢ Let us cast away, beloved, 
In the future, all the past.” 


These were his last words, and on the hope they inspired, she 
was trying to lean—a frail support—with the parting gulf be- 
tween them. Youth is buoyant, and sleep, that loves best the 
eyes that are unsullied with a tear, sometimes also visits those 
that are so sullied; and, under the influence of bright dreams, 
new hopes awakened in the heart of Margaret, as daffodils under 
the April rain. 

All day she looked forward to the twilight, thinking of every 
endearing word and look of the last meeting, and shutting from 
her thoughts, as much as possible, the coldness and abruptness 
of its close...At sunset, she sat beneath one of the trees at the 
door, not to watch its fading splendors, or to wait the white 
trembling of the evening star, but to listen for the echo of a 
coming step. She did not have long to wait. 

She had made her toilet with unusual care, for though she 
wore the accustomed dress of simple muslin, some bright leaves 
of the brier-rose shone among her chestnut braids, and the shawl 
of crimson and orange, wrapt about her dainty bare arms, con- 
cealed not the blue ribbons upon her neck and wrists. 

Now and then as the gust rose, the yellow leaves dropped in 
her lap, and a bird sometimes skimmed close to the ground, 
very near; but not gust, nor dropping leaves, nor skimming 
bird, did the maiden heed. Toward where the village spire 
whitened against the purple clouds, she looked, how earnestly, 
and the eareless step of the passing traveller made her heart 
beat louder and quicker than it could have beat at the sudden 
bursting of a tempest. Presently, in the direction of her gaze, 
the figure of a darkly-clad man is seen approaching slowly, and 


158 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


by the sudden burning on her cheek, she recognises the minister. 
The beating of her heart is like a death-watch—the shadow of a 
fear crosses her thought—she knows not why: will his greeting 
be cordial, or sad, or cold? Kind, surely, else he would not 
have come; and so she rises and walks forward to meet him, 
for he has almost reached the turning of the lane. “His head 
is bent down,” she says, “but he will see me, in a moment 
more, and quicken his step.” Does he see her? the hapless 
sinking of her heart tells her Yes, and yet it would seem not, 
for he has quite passed the lane, and is giving his walk a direc- 
tion which, till now, it had never received. Shall she walk for- 
ward, or return? Hesitating, she does neither, but stands as 
one stricken into stone, following with her eyes the receding 
form of him who turns not even once to look on her. The way 
he has chosen is dusty, and not so pleasant as the green and 
quiet lane; but Ralph Middleton’s garden borders the dusty 
road, and the fair Florence walks there often at twilight. What 
need is there of farther explanation? Days went by, and the 
sunsets were just as beautiful as before, but not to the eyes of 
Margaret—her walks were alone. After ten or twelve days, as 
she one evening sat on the mossy log in the edge of the thick 
wood, where she had so often sat before, watching the clouds or 
the stars, in his dear presence, she was surprised in her sad 
meditation, by his approach. He smiled as he drew near, and 
extended his hand with more familiarity than formerly, and 
seating himself beside her on the mossy log, talked gaily and 
lightly of a thousand things, but in a different vein from that 
in which he had ever talked before. His manner was now that 
of a dear, kind, darling brother, but nothing more—in fact he 
denied impliedly that anything more had ever been intended— 
and he spoke of the future, but did not say 


‘¢ Let us cast away, beloved, 
In the future all the past.” 


No—nothing of that sort—but of the time when he should have 
a home—just such an one as the poetic mind of Margaret inight 
picture—and that one of the chief pleasures he hoped for was 
in receiving her as a frequent guest. “ You are growing thin, 


MARGARET FIELDS. 15S 


my dear friend,” he said, patting her on the cheek in a patron 
izing way ; ‘“‘ you seclude yourself too much: how I wish I could 
persuade you to condescend a little from: your dignity, and as- 
sociate with your modest little neighbor yonder.” She did not 
look up, but she felt that he pointed in the direction of the Mid- 
dleton mansion, and that that was the unkindest thing of all. She 
said nothing, however, and the recreant continued, as though 
every word were healing balm, instead of a piercing thorn: 
“Really, Miss Fields, Florence is the most charming little 
creature in the world; I am sure you would love her if you 
knew her, so perfectly does she realize my ideal of all that is | 
good and beautiful.” “ Doubtless she is all you say,” answered 
Margaret; “but I am not one to win back love, however much 
I may give; and for my own peace, it is best that I make no 
overtures.” ‘Miss Fields must not so depreciate herself,” re- 
plied the young man: “ Florence speaks almost every evening 
of the black-eyed cottage girl, and wishes she could be per- 
suaded to join our walks.” He had always said Margaret and 
Miss Middleton, until to-night. 

Thick and fast fell the shadows, and the poor girl was glad 
of their fall, for she felt the blood go down from her cheek and 
the waters coming up to her eyes. Father! there is need of 
all thy infinite mercies for him who holds the heartstrings of 
another with a careless hand. 

“And so I have found you at last,” said a familiar voice, 
breaking the silence that was becoming embarrassing, and Ezra 
stood before the young people bowing awkwardly; but as he 
recognised the clergyman, he could not avoid his habitual ex- 
clamation, of “ Ding it all!” He then, in his blandest manner, 
told Margaret he had been searching for her everywhere—that 
his mother, or the old woman, as he called her, had a terrible 
fit of the rheumatism, and that she wished Miss Margaret to 
come to her cabin, more for the comfort of her sweet smile than 
for anything else. 

A moment afterwards Margaret was on the way towards the 
light that glimmered from the little window of the cabin in the 
edge of the woods across the fields. Ezra walked at her side 


160 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


in happy silence, feeling very much as if he had borne the prize 
from a hundred lovers, and Margaret was too much engaged 
with her own thoughts to speak to, or notice him. It was not 
of the first slight swerving of the heart, that words are power- 
less to express, that she mused, but— 
“‘Of all that fills the hearts of friends 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 
Henceforth their lives have separate ends, 

And never can be one again.” 

And as the minister sat alone, did he watch the receding 
figure of the girl, and as the pale, rebuking face of the moon 
looked down on him from between the withering boughs, did he 
reproach himself for the blight cast on a young life? Alas, no! 
“TI never told her I loved her,” he said, and thus satisfied his 
conscience, if it whispered any unpleasant remonstrance; and 
of the thousand nameless things that have more meaning than 
words, he said, “If she misconstrued them, am I to blame?” 
But the meeting and the parting with Margaret, their brief con- 
versation, and the reflections it caused, of whatever sort, were 
speedily forgotten in the gorgeous lights and gay music and 
witching smiles found in Ralph Middleton’s parlor. 


‘‘ Fate links strange contrasts, and the scaffold’s gloom 
Is neighbored by the altar.” 


Alone, in her melancholy, sat Margaret Fields, watching by 
the bedside of the mumbling old woman, the sands of whose 
glass were nearly run. Ezra, at her entreaty, had during the 
early evening retired to his own room, but by the constant 
creaking of the floor overhead, and the almost perpetual shut- 
ting and opening of a trunk, she knew that he was not gone 
there to sleep. Near midnight, he crept down into the room 
where she was, and by various motions and signs and sighs, 
contrived to make her aware of his presence. She felt that he 
was there, but rocking to and fro by the bedside, and watching 
the pained expression of the invalid, and listening to and sooth- 
ing her complaints, hour after hour went by without her having 
noticed him. At last broke forth the petulant exclamation, 
“Ding it all—blame! won’t you see a body’s new things, 
ever ?” 


MARGARET FIELDS. 161 


“ Certainly, Ezra: have you got new things ?” said Margaret, 
smiling, but the smile changed to positive laughter when turn- 
ing round she saw the unlooked for metamorphosis. ‘“ ‘These 
things are what I got for what I had in my old sock-foot,” said 
the boy, drawing himself to his full height, and distorting his 
features to a sort of grin; “and I guess even the preacher 
would be glad to swap.” . 

“T will dare say,” answered Margaret, and she now saw that 
the new dress in which he was arrayed was a very close imita- 
tion of that worn by the young clergyman, and that he held in 
one hand a small gilt volume between the leaves of which two 
of his long fingers were slipt. Poor mistaken youth! yet he 
did not look like the village pastor. All that fall, and till 
the white snow sifted down on his new clothes, he walked 
through the lane with the volume in his hand in the hope of 
being seen by Margaret. Sometimes he would stop at the 
door and communicate the last intelligence he had heard in re- 
ference to the marriage of Florence and the minister, conclud- 
ing always with the comforting assurance that every body said 
they would be married very shortly. 


Last autumn was the tenth since the young clergyman came 
to the village near which lived Margaret Fields and Florence 
Middleton, and both are living still, but Florence has for a 
long time written her changed name with the title of a matron, 
while our heroine is still Margaret Fields. In the village 
graveyard where she first wept there are two more graves, and 
he who was so busy in laying up treasures for himself on earth, 
is gone, taking nothing with him, and the last complaints of the 
querulous invalid are hushed. By their deaths, Margaret be- 
came heir to the estate, which long since passed from her 
hands, and is now fallen sadly to decay. The elegant church, 
and the plain but substantial school house for the education of 
poor and orphan children, speak volumes in praise of her vir- 
tues, who hecame, not a useless misanthrope, for the crushing 
of one hope, though never so dear, but, turning aside very 
meekly to the by-paths of duty, bears steadfastly still her cross. 


162 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


In her white cheek the crimson burns as faint 

As doth the redin some cold star’s chaste beam , 
The tender meekness of the pitying saint, 

Lends all her life the beauty of a dream. 


Thus doth she more serenely day by day, 
Loving and loved, but passion cannot move 

The young heart that has wrapt itself away 
In the soft mantle of a Savior’s love. 


The young clergyman, now no longer very young, is the 
pastor of a wealthy church in the city, and his wife is what is 
termed a fine lady. Nevertheless, he goes often from the noise 
and bustle of the thoroughfare, and the pride and glitter of his 
loftier home, to the humbler scene of his early labors. He re- 
quires change of air and new sensations, he says, and in a neat 
little cottage—halfhidden among the vines that climb about the 
windows and over the eaves—humble, but sufficient for all the 
wants of the solitary inmate, he is frequently a guest, and some- 
times, as he partakes of the bowl of sweet milk and delicious 
white bread, listening to the cheerfulness and wisdom that drop 
from the lips which perhaps he remembers to have kissed, he 
says in a half-sad tone, ‘“ How I wish Florence were more like 
you!” 

As for Ezra, I know not whether he be living or dead; but 
probably he has long been in the earth in which it was his 
living lot to toil. And the reader will be glad to know that 
his thoughts were soon diverted from the unhappy channel in 
which they at one time flowed—partly by the beautiful red silk 
purse full of glittering coins, which Margaret bestowed on him, 
in‘ lieu of the sock, for which he continually pined, in spite of 
the broadcloth in which he was “appareled as became the 
brave,”—partly by the stoppage in the neighborhood of a tra- 
velling menagerie, of which one of the most ferocious and un- 
manageable of the beasts, became surprisingly attached to him, 
so that he was hired as its keeper; and, mounted on the box in 
which his new interest was conveyed from place to place. 
dressed in his new clothes, and whistling Yanke Doodle, he de- 
parted from his native village forever. He was afterwards 
heard of, from one of the Southern cities, as having obtained 


MARGARET FIELDS. 163 


complete mastery over his charge, being able to enter the cage 
with the most easy confidence imaginable, and promptly awing 
any belligerent propensity, with “ Ding it all 1” He was com- 
pletely satisfied, and the proprietors thought him one of the 
chief attractions of their caravan. 

The good old wife of Josiah has passed away, but he still 
lives, strong and content, smoking his pipe—the same one he. 
has had these ten years. He makes all the gardens in the 
neighborhood, but people say he takes especial pains with that 
of Margaret, for no other in the whole village is half so pretty 
as hers. However, Mrs. Troost generally concludes by saying, 
“Some people are born lucky,” to which Margaret smilingly 
says, “Yes.” Little does our old and ill-contented friend sus- 
pect—. 

‘She has herself a wound concealed.” 


164 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


THE PHANTOM HUNTER. 


A stormy night in December, just such a time as makes the 
red lights in the homestead windows doubly significant of com- 
fort, as perchance we catch in passing a glimpse of the fireside 
group, or the tea-table with its steaming cups, short cakes, and 
dish filled to the brim with golden honey, to say nothing of the 
ample ball of yellow butter, or of the great pitcher of new 
milk. j 

The sun, whose warmth was scarcely felt, even while in the 
blue middle heavens, has been down an hour, and from the 
edges of the barn roof and the ends of the pendant boughs the 
icicles are shining again, rough and ridged with the drops that 
melted in the bright noontide. 

On the sides of the hills, sloping away from the wind, the 
flocks and their young are huddled closely ; may the was be 
tempered to them, for the night is cold! and the cattle gather | 
under the sheds and about the stacks: that is, the most peace- 
ably disposed—there are some that lean their horns into for- 
bidden enclosures, and steal now and then a mouthful of wheat or 
rye, which, wither beaten and rusty as it is, doubtless is sweeter 
to them than the fragrant hay strewn all about the yard. 
- Neither instinct in beast nor reason in man is strong enough to 
divest of their charm whatever things are obtained with diffi- 
culty or peril. Ihave no quarrel to make with nature; were 
it not so, what sluggards we should become! And were it not 
for this, too, the destiny Lydia Heath might have been very 
diferent 

A winter night, I said: an hour after sunset; gusts of wind 
sweep across the northern hills, through the withered woods and 


THE PHANTOM HUNTER. 165 


die away over the southern slopes. It is not so bitter cold that 
the owl, with all his feathers, is chilled, indeed, but he keeps 
snugly muffled in the hollow stub, and comes not once forth to 
fill the valley with his desolate cry: perhaps that no one is 
to-night wandering near his sacred bower; perhaps that there 
is no moon to which he may complain, for one dull mass of 
leaden clouds spreads over all the sky. And the snow has been 
steadily sifting down since the clock in the village steeple 
struck three, and the urchins, out at play in the school-yard, 
tossed up their caps and clapped their hands for joy: perhaps | 
they might get a sleigh ride, at any rate they could slide down 
hill, and chase the little snow birds here and there; but with- 
out defining their feelings, they were happy, from a new sensa- 
tion. The snow is being heaped on the tops of the fences, on 
the boughs of the trees; it blows against the face of the tra- 
veller, who trudges along with his bundle on the end of a stick 
which is swung over his shoulder}; there is even a ridge of 
snow on his staff, so steadily he carries it, and all over the rim 
of his hat; he walks as one very tired, but as though he had 
much of his journey to accomplish yet and did not mean to 
stop till it was finished. “ How far is it to Clovernook ?” he asks 
of a boy who is riding past without any saddle, and who holds 
in one hand a jug; “'To Clovernook, did you say, mister ?” 
the boy says, with an impish sort of look; the traveller nods 
assent, and he replies, “ Just as far again as ha/f;” and striking 
his horse with the heels of his boots, the animal starts forward, 
throwing the snow in the face of the tired questioner. He looks 
discouraged, sorrowful for a moment, and then, with his head 
bent forward, to keep the snow as much as possible from his 
face, walks on till, at the foot of a long ascent called Jonathan’s 
Hill, he reaches the great oak. Close about the trunk the ground 
is bare, for the gray leaves hang thick on the boughs and inter- 
rupt the snow. A little higher than his head there is a guide- 
board nailed on this tree—white, with black letters—and 
straining his eyes, he endeavors to read the direction, but it is 
too dark. Before him it looks desolate, for on either side of 
the road there are thick woods, and just on the slope of the hill, 
and bordering the forest and the western roadside, he can see 


166 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


some old fences, partly broken or fallen, and the pale looming 
of burial stones. It is a lonely scene, as | said, but he is weary, 
and placing his bundle on the ground, he sits down to rest. 

In the distance he hears the rumble of the stage coach—how 
hollow it sounds as the horses trot across the bridge; and now 
it comes nearer and nearer, so that the glimmer of the lamps is 
seen; and now it is very near; the two forward horses are 
white—how they toss their manes, and how high they hold their 
heads! yet they are tired, gay and full of life as they seem, 
and the driver pauses at the foot of the hill, that they may 
recover themselves before the effort necessary to its ascent. 
From the buffalo robe that is wrapt about him, he shakes the 
snow, and claps his hands together, once or twice, to lessen 
their numbness; he has stopt but a minute, but the travellers 
inside seem impatient, and one and another head is thrust forth 
from the window, and several voices ask what is the matter? 
“ Make yourselves easy,” he says, “this is a haunted hill, and 
I must give my horses a little rest, so that they may get over 
it fast as possible.” 

“T perceive a ghost at the foot of this tree,” cries one of the 
passengers, pointing to the oak, for the coach lamp shines on 
the pedestrian, who sits within a circle of snow. 

“‘ Driver, keep your eye to the mail bags,” says one; “ My 
baggage all safe?” another; “Drive on, drive on!” a third, to 
none of which requests or questions responds the lord of the 
four horses, but gently brings his whip-lash down on the flank 
of one of the leaders, and with a sudden plunge, and then a 
falling backward again, there is a general strain on the traces, 
and the team goes forward, at a steady and even pace— 
while the passengers enter into a thousand speculations about 
an exhausted and harmless traveller: “Some drunken fellow, I 
suspect,” one says; ‘“ No,.no, he is some evil disposed person, 
evidently,” another, “else why didn’t he speak? he must have 
heard us talking of him ;” “ Perhaps,” a third joins in, ‘“ he has 
perished in the snow-storm, or he may have been murdered, or 
even spirited from his way : who knows? this is a haunted hill; 
didn’t you say so, driver?’ and the questioner put his head 
from the window and laughed incredulously. ‘ Don’t freeze us 


THE PHANTOM HUNTER. 167 


all to death!” cries out a burly old man in one corner, button- 
ing up his overcoat. ‘Don’t you find the window annoyingly 
cold, Miss?” inquires a small gentleman in a frockcoat and 
black gloves, to the lady next him. “ Not at all, sir,” she re- 
plies, “ the fresh air is agreeable to me.” “ Well, ma’am,” says 
an old woman, with a bundle in her lap, “I wish them that 
likes it had enough of it.” “Will thee have my cloak ?” asks 
a quiet looking gentleman in drab, “and then thee will be 
pleased, and thee will be pleased,” nodding to both women. 
“Don’t let my preference inconvenience an y one,” the young lady 
remarks in a singularly sweet voice, and the old one reaches for 
the cloak in silence. “I should think there was chance enough to 
freeze with the window closed,” says the first speaker, shrugging 
his shoulders. “I wonder how the deuce this chanced to be 
called Jonathan’s Hill?” put in a little wiry man, probably with 
intent of changing the conversation ; and a gentleman witha long 
red neck, a clumsy hat very much over his eyes, and a yellow 
handkerchief smelling strongly of snuff, responds as follows : 
‘When my father came to this country, sir, some thirty- 
five years ago, this was about as rough a piece of road as you 
could find: full of stumps, without any bridges, and never 
having been graded at all, you can imagine, sir, something of 
its condition. And this wood was then so dense that it was 
almost impossible for a man to find his way through, and in- 
fested with all sorts of wild beasts, as you may suppose. [I 
have heard my father say, he shot a bear once, just where 
Squire Higgins’s barn stands:” “ Ah, indeed!” interrupted one 
or two persons, though probably no one in the coach knew that 
there was such a squire or barn; “Yes,” continued the narrator, 
“right where the barn of Squire Higgins now stands, my father 
shot a bear. I have heard him tell the story to Uncle Mike, a 
number of times.” “Js it possible!” said the nearest listener, 
by way of courtesy. “Yes, I’ve heard him tell Uncle Mike 
‘more than once,” went on the man with the snuff scented’ 
handkerchief, “and it’s only last week I heard him tell jt when 
Eunice was at our house.” “And was this called Jonathan’s 
road then?” asked some one, by way of recalling him; and 
having been brought back, he resumed: “When J onathan 


168 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Sumner built his new house, he had a great many hands in his 
employ—mostly wild young men they were, but Jonathan was 
as much a boy as any of them ; so I have heard my father say ; 
and once I remember he told tailor John so, when tailor John 
came to measure him for a new coat; and another time, when I 
went with him to Irish Patrick’s to buy some steers, he told 
Irish Patrick the same thing. Well, Jonathan proposed to his 
men a hunting expedition into these woods; so, early one Sep- 
tember morning they set out, and dividing into parties of two 
or three, pursued whatever game they chanced to find, till 
towards sunset, at which time it was agreed that the party com- 
prising the largest number should fire their guns in quick suc- 
cession, for the calling together of the straggling parties, with 
so much of their game as they might be able to carry. A fire 
was to be kindled, supper prepared, and the night passed in 
true hunter style. The party of which Jonathan made one, 
could not prevent him from straying apart, and in spite of re- 
peated remonstrances, he strolled farther and farther, until they 
finally lost sight of him, and at night, when the signal was 
made, party after party came in, but no Jonathan. They were 
a jovial set, as may be supposed, and for some time felt no 
alarm. A log-heap fire was kindled, supper cooked, with many 
a jest, and after some little delay, eaten with keen enjoyment. 
Cloaks and blankets were spread on the dry leaves under a 
large tree, and with the game strewed all about, and swinging 
from the branches of trees, they were about to lie down for the 
night, when it was proposed by some one to fire another signal. 
It was accordingly done, and contrary to expectation a reply 
was heard in a minute afterward. ‘ Ah, no fear of Jonathan, I 
knew,’ said one to another, and the embers were heaped 
together, and a fresh surloin of venison was laid on the coals 
in order to give him good cheer on his arrival. 
“The mirth, which was flagging, grew louder again, and the red 
sparkles ran far along the darkness, but not so far as the laugh- 
ter. At last the steak was done, and over-done, and the flame 
flickering among the ashes, but Jonathan was not there.’ They 
began to think they had been deceived as to the response to 
their signal; ‘It didn’t sound to me precisely like a gun,’ said 


THE PHANTOM HUNTER. 169 


one, ‘ Nor to me,’ said another; and so it was concluded to fire 
again. Very eagerly they listened, but the sound had no sooner 
fairly subsided, than the answer came clear and distinct, and all, 
this time, professed to recognise the tone of Jonathan’s piece. 
But, nevertheless, after waiting half an hour, they began to feel 
less positive, and another half hour was consumed in telling 
stories of phantom ships and phantom guns, at the expiration 
of which time the woods rung with a third signal, followed, like 
_ the preceding ones, with a quick return; and this time it was 
pretty generally agreed, that it was not Jonathan’s gun at all, 
and that he was doubtless murdered by savages, who responded 
to the signals, to delay search. This question speedily woke 
up a spirit of bravery, and all the company equipt themselves, 
and set out to ransack that portion of the woods whence the 
sound seemed to proceed. When the spot, or somewhere near 
it, was supposed to be gained, another gun was fired, and to the 
astonishment of all, the answering gun seemed just as far from 
them as before. Some of the more timid, now proposed to re- 
turn to the camp, and even to get out of the woods if possible, 
but others vowed that it would be a great shame to forsake a 
distressed companion, whom they were probably even then 
very near, and the search was renewed, but though it was kept 
up for hours, they came no nearer to the mysterious gun of 
which they heard the reports. 

‘“‘ About midnight, the moon rose full and bright, and just at 
the foot of this hill, where old Major Hays is buried, the party, 
tired, discouraged, and half afraid, it may be, struck into the 
road, or all the road there then was—a sort of trail through 
the wilderness. ‘Come, boys, let us fire a farewell signal,’ said. 
one, emboldened by the moonlight, and a certain knowledge of 
his whereabouts. ‘No, no,’ was replied, ‘for [ll be shot, if he 
hastn’t been playing us a trick after all; just look there!’ and 
he pointed to a man, walking slowly, a little in advance of them, 
whom all were ready to swear, was Jonathan Sumner. Very 
slowly he walked, and as one in great pain; ‘but he sees us,’ 
they said, ‘and is seeking to palm on us a new trick; let us 
not seem to notice him ;’ so, for a time, they walked as slowly 
as the man in advance, but at length, they grew tired of their 

8 


170 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


pace, and after a whispered consultation, resolved to overtake 
him, but to express no surprise at meeting him thus, nor suffer 
him to know they had felt the least uneasiness about him ; and 
thus, they thought, he will have had his pains for nothing. 
‘Haloo! Jonathan, won’t you wait a little for us? called one; 
but Jonathan, with his gun pointed over his shoulder, made 
no reply, but dragged himself forward as before, on which they 
quickened their pace, with intent to overtake him as soon as 
possible. But though Jonathan was so near, as they protested, 
that they could see his gun distinctly, and the color of his coat, 
on first mending their pace, they walked five minutes without 
coming in the least nearer. Seeing this they began to run, and 
at the end of five minutes were no nearer than before. Next, 
they sat down, resolved to baffle him in some way, but after 
waiting half an hour, the mysterious man was observed to be 
standing stock still, precisely the same distance from them. 
Frightened not a little, they proceeded again, but whether they 
walked fast or slow, it mattered not, the phantom, or Jonathan, 
or whatever it was, kept just as far away from them during 
the whole journey home. Nearly opposite the new house, on 
which they were at work, their attention was withdrawn from 
the strange sight, by perceiving that a bright light burned in 
one of the chambers, and on looking again, he was no where to 
be seen ; nor” concluded the story-teller, ‘has he ever been heard 
of till now, and in this way, Jonathan’s Hill got its name.” 

“Ts Mr. Timothy Sumner any way related to this strange per- 
son?” asked the young lady who liked the air. “Only a 
brother!” was the reply, and the speaker laughed, evidently 
thinking he had said a witty thing. ‘And does the brother 
inherit the estate?” asked the young lady. The gentleman said, 
he didn’t know, as to that, but that Timothy lived in Jona- 
than’s house, because other folks were afraid of the haunted 
chamber, and he added, “Timothy has a son, a good deal like 
his uncle, from all accounts.” 

On hearing this, she asked the entertaining passenger if he 
would be kind enough to stop the coach at the house of Mr. 
Timothy Sumner. “No,” he said, “I stop at Uncle David’s, but 
I'll speak to the driver,” and looking from the window, he re- 


THE PHANTOM HUNTER. 171 


quested that personage to “stop at Tim’s, without fail,” and 
added, ‘‘ you may just leave me at Uncle David’s.” Reseating 
himself, he saw, he said, “‘an individual, a little in the rear 
of the coach, and it might be Jonathan’s ghost, for all he knew.” 
There was a general strain to look out, and one devil-me-care 
youth, called, “ Ha, Jonathan Sumner! is that you, or your 
ghost ?” 

“Jt’s me, myself,” exclaimed the man, “and a great many 
years it is, since | went down this hill on the famous hunt.” 

They had now gained the summit of the hill, and the passen- 
gers, certainly, a little startled, were not sorry to hear the 
smart crack of the whip, which sent the horses forward, almost 
to the extent of their speed. ‘There was a general buzz of ani- 
mated conversation, one asking, how soon they would be at Clo- 
vernook ; another wondering whether they would stop there to 
supper ; another, how soon they would reach the next station, &c. ; 
but the young lady remained silent and thoughtful. Presently 
the stage stopt, and the gentleman with the snuff-scented hand- 
kerchief, made his exit. 

“T hope Uncle David’s folks will be glad to see him,” said 
the youth, who had spoken to the ghost, and before the laughter 
_had fully subsided, the reins were drawn up again, and the driver 
called out, “Is there a passenger inside for Tim Sumners 2” 
and hearing the low-voiced response of a lady, he leapt to the 
ground, and brushing aside the snow with his boot, assisted her 
to alight, for coach-drivers are not without gallantry. At the 
open gate, stood an elderly man with an umbrella over his head, 
and holding a lantern, who received her with old fashioned cour- 
tesy. The snow was still falling fast, but a path had been 
cleared from the front gate to the piazza, and lights were burning 
in various parts of the house—one, which the young lady was 
sorry to see,in an upper chamber. “All right!” said the driver, 
having deposited the bandbox within the gate, and the coach 
rattled on again, while the gentleman conducted his charge 
into the house, asking her, by the way, if she were not very 
cold, how long the coach had been in coming up, &c.—unimpor: 
tant, but manifesting a kindly interest. 


172 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 


Tue door opened at once on the ancient-looking parlor into 
which Timothy Sumner introduced his young guest. Split 
sticks of hickory mixed with small gnarled boughs of maple and 
elm were blazing in the deep, wide fire-place, and the red light 
flickered and danced on the opposite wall. On the high carved 
mantel, of walnut, ticked the clock, surmounted with curious 
gilt images, and its lower front ornamented with the picture of 


a mansion, having a great many white columns and red win- 


dows, before which were three very tall green trees. 


On either side of the clock was a small profile cut in ink-— 


black paper, one of a male and the other of a female figure: 
the latter supposed by the young lady to represent the de- 
parted Mrs. Sumner, and the former to counterfeit Timothy 


himself. The portion of the wall below the windows was faced © 


with walnut, carved like the mantel, and the doors were of the 
same material, and correspondingly finished ; the carpet was of a 
sombre sort of check, and the other furniture of such dark and 


antique paterns as are only found in old-fashioned country — 


houses: but the room was relieved from looking gloomy by 
the pure whiteness of the ceiling and the remainder of the wall, 
the pots of flowers, Jerusalem cherry-trees, and Jacob’s lad- 
ders, though they were, and the warm ruddy glow of the fire- 
light. The great brass andirons were polished almost to white- 
ness ; how they glittered and shone! Lydia Heath could see 
the tiny reflection of her face in them, as she sat before the 


hearth awaiting the coming of Judith and Maria, whom their 
father was gone to apprise of her arrival. While thus alone, 
she heard a sound as of some one stamping the snow off — 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 178 


his feet, followed by a loud rap on the door of the adjoining 
room, and then joyous exclamations, “ Can this be Timothy ? 
God bless you! have I lived to see you!” and the like. But 
Timothy manifested no surprise, certainly no joy: the tones of 
his voice remaining cold and calm, a little lower than was their 
wont, perhaps. ‘The new comer was shortly removed from the 
room first entered, so that Lydia heard no more, and the ladies 
very soon after made their appearance. 

Judith, the elder, was perhaps thirty-five: tall, dark and 
stout. Her eyes were very black, and her hair of the same 
tone, except the silver threads, which knots of ribbon and other 
furbelows could no longer conceal. Her nose was the promi- 
nent feature of her face—the forehead and chin receding in such 
way as to render it not precisely an angle, but something in 
that way. Her feet and hands were larger than her figure, 
large as it was, seemed to demand: so that, it may readily be 
imagined, her claims to regard for personal beauty must have 
been exceedingly slight. Notwithstanding this, however, there 
was that in her air and manner which procured for her aristo- 
-eratic pretensions ready recognition: for Timothy Sumner, be 
it known, was not only the wealthiest man in the country, but 
he could trace his. genealogy much farther back than most of 
his neighbors, farther even, I suspect, than Mr. Middleton. 
Maria, ten or twelve years younger than her sister, was in some 
sort her counterpart, but in a softer way. Her hair was of a 
dark brown, but without the silver streaks, and was worn in 
half curls about her cheeks, which retained all the plumpness 
they ever possessed, and carnation enough to show that there 
was life in them, but not any more. She was not so tall nor so 
stout as Judith, and altogether was more approachable and 
familiar, though for her soul she would have neither talked loud 
nor fast. 

Mrs. Sumner had been dead for many years, but when living 
had been the pattern woman of the neighborhood : a cap or dress 
could scarcely be in any degree of taste if not modelled after 
hers, and unless the judgment of Timothy were sadly at fault, 
she had possessed more beauty and pride than all her family 
combined. He had been, during her life, a faithful spouse, nor 


174 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


did he ever, after her death, lean in the least toward another, 
though never so much tempted by the smiles of the ingenious 
and wise widows who continually beset him. 

At church he was neighbored all round by ladies whom his 
friends told him were covetable matches. If he went to the — 
meadow to assist black Cato a little, because of the storm that 
was coming up, the Widow Dartman was sure to see him from 
her window, and cross the field to know if her cow had not broken 
into his enclosures ;-and if he went to town, Mrs. Spikes would 
like-to go, if he would be so kind as to find room for her in his 
chaise ; and among his in-town acquaintances there was more 
than one lady who would think it quite a charity, if Mr. 
Sumner would allow her to comé out to his house, just for a 
day or two, to inhale the pure country air. Among this num- 
ber must be reckoned the Widow Heath. Judith and Maria 
were expected to make her house their home when they came — 
to the city ; and she would send Lydia out to pass a week with 
them, that they might feel no hesitancy about it. Lydia, of _ 
course was glad to go, though perfectly artless in the matter. 
Mrs. Heath was possessed of considerable wealth, so that what 
ever her motives, they were not mercenary ; at least it would 
not be reasonable to suppose they were. But, for some cause, 
she was one of the admirers of Mr. Sumner; perhaps her heart 
was yet susceptible ; who knows ? 

Young women in the country must needs have some acquaint- 
ances in town, else how should they ever get the fashions? so 
the overtures of Mrs. Heath were cordially met, and after due 
preliminaries the stage horn sounded one December afternoon 
in front of Mrs. Heath’s handsome mansion, and Lydia having 
been told to make herself useful and agreeable, especially to 
Mr. Sumner, with satchel and trunk was helped into the coach. 

And now we may return to the parlor, where we left her, 
seated before the great fire, with Judith and Maria. She had 
been accustomed to the city all her life, but, notwithstanding, she 
had always felt an instinctive love of the country, and her spirits 
were now exhilarated with a wild sense of dawning freedom. 
Gaily she spoke of every thing; even the snow-storm served 
only to make it more cheerful within ; and as she sat before the 


\ 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 175 


large fire, now and then catching a glimpse of her face in the 
shining brass andirons, she felt that she should like to. stay 
there for ever. But though she really was so happy, and 
chatted in so lively a manner, a thought of the haunted cham- 
ber obtruded on her, occasionally, and another vague dream of 
a pleasanter nature. Had Mr. Timothy Sumner really a son? 
if so, what was his name, and how did he look? She could not 
think him like Judith; and was he old or young? but she 
scarcely admitted the possibility of his being old; she. rather 
thought he was younger than Maria. Very glad was she to 
hear the preparations for tea, in the next room; she would see 
him then, she thought, and perhaps the new comer too, certainly, 
if he were Uncle Jonathan, as she half suspected. 

At last Dinah, the colored maid, thrust her good-natured 
face within the door, and announced to Missis Judith, that tea 
was in readiness. The curiosity of the young girl was all alive, 
and shaking back her brown curls, and saying laughingly that 
she for one, should do justice to the tea, she followed the stately 
Judith, looking something like a sunbeam in the edge of a 
cloud: for she was slight, fond of talking, and her face was 
illumined always with inward cheerfulness. Maria, neither so 
dignified nor so silent as her sister, could accommodate herself 
in some measure to the volatile and gay Lydia; but the child- 
like simplicity of her manner, and the mirthfulness of her 
laughter and conversation were shocking in a degree, even to 
her. Nevertheless, the sisters could not fail to perceive that - 
Lydia was really well bred, and that she belonged to an ancient 
and wealthy family was past a doubt. Therefore a thousand 
things were excused in her, which they would have condemned 
in a daughter of Deacon Whitfield or of Mr. Troost, or Mr. 
Tompkins. 

Miss Judith did the honors of the table ; opposite her sat her 
father, precise and proud, but with such analities that one could 
not help loving him; at one side Maria took her place, and at 
the other was the chair for Lydia. No other persons made their 
appearance. 

The man in the coach must have been mistaken, thought 
Lydia; and turning to Mr. Sumner, she asked him whether he 


176 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


knew such a man—describing him as well as she could, and re- 
lating his manner of talking of his relations and friends, as 
though they were known to every body; not forgetting, in con- 
clusion, to tell that he stopt at “Uncle David’s.” The story 
of Jonathan’s Hill, discretion prevented her saying any thing 


about, though she mentioned incidentally that the strange 


gentleman talked incessantly while they were coming up the 
hill; “Jonathan’s Hill, I believe they called it,” she said, 
glancing around the table. 

“Yes, yes, a curious sort of fellow, I know him very well,” 
replied Mr. Sumner, in a more hurried manner than was his 
custom; and for once, (it became thereafter quite a frequent 
occurrence) the color came into the thin cheek of the elder 
sister. 

“T should think him perfectly honest,” continued Lydia. 

“Strictly so, strictly so,” said Mr. Sumner; “and you say 
he talked all the time you were coming up the hill; what did 
he have to enlighten you all about ?” 

“Oh! I hardly know what,” Lydia replied; but though she 
bent her head low, the curls could not quite cover her blushes, 
80 conscious was she of the falsehood she uttered. But rallying 
presently, she added, “ He told us in what spot his father shot 
a bear, a long time ago, and a good many other things ;” and 
in saying this, she partly atoned, as she thought, for what she 
had first stated. 

All that evening she marvelled whether Mr. Sumner really 
had a son; she could not understand how the man could have 
been mistaken, as he seemed to know the family so well; that 
he was honest, Mr. Sumner himself had told her; but if there 
were such a young man, why did she not see him at tea? and 
why was no mention made of him ? 

While she thus meditated, Maria took up a child’s apron, and 
began trimming it with lace. A sudden thought suggested 
itself: the son and brother was married, and the apron was for 
one of his children: the most natural thing in the world—why 
had she not thought of it before? To make assurance doubly 
sure, she said, seeming to admire the work, “ You have no little 
brother or sister, have you ?” 


wef TS ee ees 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 177 


Maria smiled, saying, “I have no little brother, but I have a 
big one, and this is for his child.” 

“Oh, yes, yes,” answered Lydia, “what a pretty pattern!” 
And shortly afterwards, complaining of being tired, she went, 
after the guidance of Judith, to her chamber. She did not feel 
quite so happy as she had before; she could not imagine why, 
and for a long while kept tossing and turning; she could never 
sleep so well in a strange place. On the morrow, however, she 
recovered all her cheerfulness, and ran from room to room, and 
out of doors and in, like a child. She had settled the query 
about the brother, and as for the strange guest, she had almost 
forgotten him. 

Towards evening she stole out of the parlor, and muffled in 
hood and shawl, went with Dinah to see her milk the cows, 
To be sure, the snow was half a foot deep, hut what of that? a 
path was trodden down toward the barn, and cold would only 
give her red cheeks. When she found herself within the shed, 
where half a dozen cows were eating hay, she felt a little 
afraid, but, nevertheless, professed bravery, and laughingly told 
Dinah that she should like above all things to be a farmer’s wife. 

Dinah was heartily pleased at this, and vowed she would 
lose no time in telling master Archibald. . 

“ And pray who is he?” asked Lydia. . 

“Lord bless your soul,” answered the maid, “he is the very 
best one of the family, and you haven’t hearn of him ?”’ 

“The best of what family ?” asked Lydia. 

“ Why, old massa’s, to be sure.” And she milked so fast 
with the excitement of her subject, that the sound on the bot- 
tom of the tin pail almost prevented her words being under. 
stood. 

“ Ah, yes,” said Lydia, “I heard Maria speak of him last 
night, I think.” 2 

“It’s a wonder if you, did,” said Dinah, “for they never 
mention his name more than if he was of my color—case 
they’re ashamed of him.” 

“She could not well avoid it,” said Lydia; “I asked for 
whom she was making an apron that you, perhaps, saw her at 
work on, and she told me it was for her brother’s child.” 

Q* 


178 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“He, he, he!” laughed Dinah; in fact, she could not milk 
for some minutes, so convulsed was she with laughter. At 
length she managed to say, ‘Massa Archibald have no child, 
more than the man in the moon!” 

“T don’t understand how it is,” said Lydia; but Dinah said 
she did, that the apron was for master Williams’s child, that he 
had several children, and lived in the village of Sumnerville, 
while master Archibald was a single young man and lived at 
home. “But you might be here a month and not see him,” 
she added. It was natural enough that Lydia should ask why. 
“Case,” answered Dinah, “they’s ashamed of him; he isn’t 
polished like the rest of the family; he likes to work on the 
farm, and don’t wear gloves when he goes to meeting; and, be- 
sides all that, he has had the small pox the last year, and that 
spilt his beauty, and so they’s more ashamed of him than 
ever; but,” she continued, “there is no love lost, for he don’t 
like the ladies any better than they does him.” 

“T should like to see him,” Lydia said, “but won’t he eat 
with us ever?” 

‘“‘ ‘When the neighbor country-folks are here they ask him to 
come to tea sometimes; but when there are visitors like you, 
Miss, he. doesn’t get asked, but I look out for his comfort in the 
kitchen,” and Dinah seemed to felicitate herself on that. 

‘“‘] wish I could see him,” said Lydia again, thoughtfully. 

“ Bless your life, child,” said Dinah eagerly, “just look down 
the lane ; that is he with the gun and dogs.” 

Lydia looked as directed, but saw little more than the outline 
of the young man’s figure, before she heard her name called, 
and looking up saw before her Mr. Timothy Sumner, who pro- 
fessed to have felt great alarm on her account, as, hastily draw- 
ing her arm within his, he conducted her back to the house, 
where she found the two young women in visible trepidation. 

She had certainly been very indiscreet, so recklessly exposing 
herself to the rough weather, to say nothing of the alarm she 
had caused ; and owning her fault like a good girl as she was, 
she sat down by the fire and resigned herself to a hopeless en- 
durance for another evening. 

After tea, whist was proposed, and as Lydia seemed to enter 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 179 


into the spir:t of the game, she kept thinking how much better 
she should like Archibald for a partner than Judith. On re- 
turning to her chamber she sat down by the fire to muse about 
the family in general, and Archibald in particular, but her at- 
tention was presently arrested by voices in the next room. 
The communicating door had been left ajar, and listening close, 
for she thought of the haunted chamber, she could hear imper- 
fectly what was said, and was soon convined that the inmates 
were human beings: one of them, from the full, firm tone of his 
voice, in all probability Archibald himself. He seemed, how- 
ever, little more than a listener to his companion, whose cracked 
and tremulous accent betokened age and infirmity. He was 
evidently telling stories of his own wonderful adventures in 
hunts, and camps, and fights. Satisfied that her neighbors 
were not ghosts, she tried to busy herself with her own 
thoughts, and at last, in recalling all Dinah had said, and im- 
agining realms of rural happiness, she fell asleep to the murmur 
of their voices, and did not wake till the light streamed through 
‘her window. 

Two days went by, and Lydia neither saw nor heard any. 
thing of Archibald. She scarcely ventured to leave the parlor for 
a moment, least it should be thought at variance with her 
friends’ ideas of propriety. She dared neither skip nor dance, 
nor in fact move at all, unless obvious occasion required. 
When the third day came, she could endure the restraint no 
longer; she had cut new patterns, and exhibited all her dresses, 
that the Sumners might remodel theirs according to the latest 
fashions ; she had also told them of all the new styles of wear- 
ing the hair she had heard of; and she knew no other means 
by which to make herself useful or agreeable; and she felt that 
she had not come near their hearts: there was a constant 
restraint and formality in all their intercourse, which was alien 
to her nature. 

They employed themselves most of their time in embroidery 
and fine needle-work, which seemed so completely to absorb 
their minds, that they could scarcely converse at all, and when 
they did so, it was with a cold, reserved melancholy, and with 
words that betrayed only the surface of feeling. 


ad 


180 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Mr. Sumner was consequential, but with persons whom he 
considered socially his equals, most genial and conversable, 
He however was obliged to deny himself the pleasure of the 
young women’s society, in consequence of the heavy demands 
on his time, being one of those persons who seem always to 
have a great deal in hand, without ever doing much. It was 
his habit to say, almost every night in his life, “Judith, my 
dear, can’t you oblige me by having breakfast a little earlier 
to-morrow than usual?” At which times Judith invariably said, 
‘‘ T will endeavor, sir, to do so,” whereupon the old gentleman 
said, “ Thank you, my dear”—and retired; and Judith, tinkling 
a little hand-bell, transmitted the order to Dinah, who never 
failed to laugh good humoredly on hearing the familar words, 

Every pleasant day, and sometimes when it was not so plea- 
sant, Mr. Sumner went into the adjoining county; what he 
went for, no one ever knew or questioned, it was enough that 
he was going there. 

Lydia was not without curiosity, and was ill satisfied with 
this indefinite definition of his purposes; and so, one evening, 
after the accustomed order for an early breakfast, and the an- 
nouncement that he was going to the adjoining county, she 
went abruptly into the kitchen and inquired of Dinah, what on 
earth it was for which Mr. Sumner made this almost daily jour- 
ney; but Dinah knew no more about it than the man in the 
moon, to use her favorite expression. She recollected, that 
twenty years or so before, he had owned some property there, 
but that had been sold in Mrs. Sumner’s time, as she distinctly 
remembered that the man who bought the estate had brought 
and presented to Mrs. Sumner a pair of shoes, for obligingly 
and unhesitatingly signing the deed. This, she said, she could 
not forget, for the shoes were never worn, and Mr. Sumner 
took them from the chest, and put them in the sunshine regu- 
larly twice every week, in memory of his wife’s amiability. 
Lydia had remarked, that one of the chief occupations of Mr. 
Sumner, when at home, was the reviewing and packing and 
unpacking of all articles that had belonged to his wife. On 
an upper piazza, fronting the room she had occupied, there were 
regularly displayed, dresses, faded ribbons, old caps, and bon- 


a ee a 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 181 


nets, which had been stylish in their day, but which now 
looked so antique and odd, as to excite any one, not particularly 
interested, to laughter or to pity ; at least Lydia was so tempted, 
as she stole a look at them one day. It was well no one saw her 
but Dinah, for she not only laughed, but said she would burn 
them in the fire without reservation, except, indeed, such little 
mementoes as might be kept in perfect preservation. No letter 
had Mrs. Sumner ever received from a fifth cousin, stating that 
her husband had bought six new shirts, or was taking the famous 
Indian Panacea for the chills, or from her mother giving advice 
about the teething of Judith, or Maria’s hooping-cough, that 
was not carefully treasured, yellow and musty, and with the 
ink faded to a dull brown. In these articles, and the care they 
required, one of the heaviest demands on the time of Mr. Timo- 
thy Sumner was explained; and Lydia could not help hoping, 
that no chamber was worse haunted than that which held the 
chests, bureaus, and wardrobes, filled with these relics. 

But to return to the kitchen where Lydia was talking with 
Dinah about the adjoining county, and proposing to go thither 
herself on an exploring expedition, She fancied that her prim 
behavior for two or three days had earned her the privilege of 
a little chat in the kitchen, but she was wrong. A light tap on 
the door with the thimble-finger of Judith (she wore a gold 
thimble), arrested her gaiety. Some trivial excuse, I forget 
what, that stately lady made for recalling her to the parlor. 
“In one moment,” said Lydia, “I want to learn how to make 
these cakes, which Dinah is mixing.” 

She really wanted to ask Dinah whether she had communi- 
cated her message about being a farmer’s wife, and to know of 
Cato, what he proposed doing with the three baskets of corn 
that he had brought in and ranged against the wall; but Dinah 
had only said she had a great long story to tell, and Cato, that 
Mr. Archibald and he were going to have a shelling match that 
night, when the tap of the thimble, a little louder than before, 
put an end to the scheme she had half formed about helping to 
shell the corn. Her countenance grew blank, but kindled up 
with a smile as Dinah whispered, “ Never mind, Miss, I’ve got 
a plan ;” and so, returning to the parlor, she renewed her in- 


182 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


structions in reference to some stitch, which Judith had forgotten. 
Fortune favors the brave, thought she, and for a time interested 
herself in the stitching, cross stitching, and double stitching of 
the ladies; but as the time wore on, and Dinah failed to pre- 
sent herself, she began to wish she was at home. “ It is use- 
less to remain here longer,” she thought, “I shall never see 
Archibald, and as for the rest of the family, I shall never make 
friends of them ;” and lighting the lamp, she said she should 
return home in the morning, and retired to her chamber to 
gather her effects together, so as to be in readiness for the coach. 

It must not be supposed, that Lydia was in love with Archi- 
bald; by no means; curiosity had induced an interest at first, 
which was deepened by a knowledge of his peculiar situation. 
Her heart was overflowing with kindness, and she fancied she 
might in some way be of service to him, for she imagined him , 
an outcast from all the world, as well as from the love of his 
sisters. If she could only ask him to come to her mother’s and 
get breakfast when he brought a load of hay to town, she would 
be so glad. “He is good enough to eat with me, I know,” she 
said, “else Dinah would not have said he was good, for she is 
good ;” and so, childishly musing, she refolded and placed in_ 
her satchel such little articles as were scattered about the 
table and chairs, 

While she was thus engaged, Dinah presented herself, saying, 
they were all shelling corn in the kitchen, and having such nice 
times—wouldn’t Miss Lydia just come down a little while 2 

“They will compel me away by some means,” she thought, 
“it is of no use;” and complaining of a headache, she retired to 
rest in a petulant mood, thinking what a very ugly name Archi- 
bald is. 

When Mr. Timothy Sumner came back, towards midnight, 
from one of his excursions into the adjoining county, and was 
informed of Lydia’s proposed return to town in the morning, 
he was surprised and pained; it must not be so on any account ; 
he was confident she had intended to stay longer, and they had 
surely failed in hospitality in some way, else she had seen such 
members of his family as were no credit to him. This suppo- 
sition seemed to be favored by the knowledge of Lydia’s havy- 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 183 


ing once or twice gone into the kitchen, and once to the cow: 
yard. “Well, well, I will see to it in the morning,” he said, 
and having taken a letter from his pocket and written with his 
pencil various unmeaning characters on the back of it, he retired 
to his chamber, muttering something about Archibald and uncle 
Jonathan, to the effect that they had better live in the woods— 
which were suited to them and the like. To say truth, Archi- 
bald was very careless, both of the etiquette which his father 
and sisters punctiliously observed, and of his personal appear- 
ance, No one took any interest in him, and, therefore, he took 
little in himself; but during the last few days a change had 
come o’er the spirit of his dream. He had told Dinah, for the 
first time in his life, that he wished her to iron his shirts a little 
more particularly ; he had also more than once given his boots 
snto Cato’s hands to be blacked ; he had called at the barber's, 
when at the tavern, and had his whiskers trimmed in a neat 
and fashionable style. All these were things he had never 
done before, nor could Dinah imagine, as she herself said, what 
possessed him. As he had not seen Lydia, and there was no 
probability of his seeing her, it would seem that she could have 
had nothing to do with the metamorphosis. 

The snowbirds had scarcely hopped from the boughs in the 
morning, before Lydia was dressed and in complete readiness 
to depart. The parlor fire burned brightly, and seating herself 
before it, she awaited a little impatiently the breakfast. 

A sudden thought struck her—she would go into the kitchen 
and talk with Dinah, who had been very obliging to her, and 
so quicken the speed of time. “Now truly I is sorry,” said 
that amiable personage, “that you are to leave us, for no such 
quality as you has been in this house for many a day ; but you 
 snust come back when it gets warm and we make the garden, 
and now you couldn’t see master Archibald if you were to stay 
ever so long.” 7 

“ And why so?” asked Lydia; “but,” she added, “I sup- 
pose it’s because he don’t want to see me half so much as I do 
him.” 

“That he do, Miss,” said Dinah, “and last night he was 
ready in his best coat to eat supper with you, when proud Miss 


184 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Judith came out with her ribbons all a flying, and told him he 
looked like a fright, and if she were him, she would hide away 
from all humanity—meaning by that,” said Dinah, “that he 
must hide away from you, and so master Archibald sat here 
sad all the evening, and would not eat any supper. But the 
reason you can’t see him now is, that old massa sent him away 
on government business this morning, and he must be in town 
by this time, ’case he went to Clovernook to take the first 
stage.” 

“ And so he is gone; well, he must be a singular sort of 
genius,” said Lydia, musingly. ° 

Dinah answered that he was, and said farther, “‘ They say he 
is like his uncle Jonathan, but I don’t think so.” * 

“And have you seen that curious uncle?” and Lydia was 
reminded of the stranger’s arrival, and the wild hunting stories 
she had heard one night ; but before she had time to make fur- 
ther inquiry, Mr. Sumner presented himself, and rubbing his 
hands together in a brisk sort of way, began protesting against 
the possibility of Lydia’s departure ; no, no, he could not hear 
of it; he had planned half a dozen little excursions, which he 
could not be disappointed of}; not, certainly, unless she could 
give good reasons for her return to the city. 

Thus forced to make some plea, Lydia adopted the first that 
presented itself, and said that her wardrobe had not been suff- 
ciently provided to warrant a longer stay, but that she should 
be happy to avail herself of his hospitality another time. 
“Then return to-night,” urged Mr. Sumner; this suggestion 
was seconded on the appearance of the young ladies, and, 
more to avoid importunity than for any intention of complying, 
Lydia acceded to the request. She could not help remarking, 
that no one seemed anxious to withdraw her from the kitchen ; 
and not only so, but they assured her she should have the whole 
range of the house, and barn, too, if it pleased her. 

Having settled that she should return, the little family sat 
down to muffins and coffee; after which, Mr. Sumner, being 
called from home by some urgent business, was obliged im- 
mediately to make his adieus; not, however, without reiterat- 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 185 


ing his expectation of meeting Lydia again in the evening, and 
receiving her assurance that he should not be disappointed. 

After his departure there was not long to wait till the ticking 
of the clock was drowned in the heavy rumble of the coach, 
and Cato, who had been stationed at the gate, presented him- 
self, and taking charge of her luggage, hastened out to hold up 
one hand in token of a passenger. The four horses were brought 
to a sudden stand—the luggage stowed on the top, and the lady 
inside ; adieus waved to the ladies at the window, to Dinah, who 
stood midway from the gate to the house, and to Cato, who 
leaned over the fence, laughing his good will, and by way of 
performing some parting feat for the especial benefit of Miss 
Lydia, dislodging a cat, with one horizontal sweep of the hand, 
from her comfortable position on the gate-post. 

“It may be along time before I see that old place again,” 
thought Lydia, and she looked earnestly till it was hidden from 
her view by a turn in the road and a clump of trees. 

“The farm you view so intently,” said a full manly voice at 
her side, “presents a much better appearance in the summer 
time,” and turning round, her eyes half blinded with sunlight, 
Lydia saw that her travelling company was only one gentle- 
man, of stfikingly prepossessing appearance, and she fancied 
she must somewhere have seen him before, or a person who 
looked very much like him. His ungloved hands unmistaka- 
bly spoke him a farmer, and supposing he might live in 
that neighborhood, she said, “You seem familiar with the 
scenery,” to which the stranger replied simply, “ Yes,” and 
leaning from the window, added, “Ah, you see the place to | 
great disadvantage: when yonder line of forest is in full leaf, 
and this orchard in blossoms, instead of snow, it presents a 
sight far more pleasing.” 

“ Do you know the proprietor ?” asked Lydia; and her fel- 
low passenger said that he had some sort of acquaintance with 
him, adding, ‘“‘ You also have, as I judge.” 

After some further conversation of Mr. Timothy Sumner, 
during which the stranger, laughingly, asked whether she had 
remarked his going into the adjoining county, he said abruptly, 
“A peculiar family !” 


186 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“Do you know the young man?” Lydia inquired; “ and is 
he peculiar, too ?” 

“Well, perhaps he is,” said the stranger, “but I don’t so 
much dislike his peculiarities,” 

“] fancy J should not,” she said; “indeed, my sympathies 
were quite drawn out in his behalf.” 

“ And did you not see him?” and her questioner smiled as 
he spoke. | 

She replied that she did not, repeating some things which 
Dinah had told her, and concluded by saying she should like 
vastly to see him, but inasmuch as he had been sent from home 
that morning, and had not mingled with the rest of the family 
at all during her visit, which indeed as like as not would never 
be repeated, she doubted exceedingly whether she should ever 
form Mr. Achibald’s acquaintance. The travellers found each 
other extremely interesting ; the fast flying coach seemed to 
give impulse to their tongues, and they conversed so familiarly 
and freely as to feel astonished at themselves when their little 
journey was ended. 

“ And so,” said the young man at parting, “ you have some 
curiosity to see this Archibald Sumner ? I myself saw him this 
morning, and he told me he should return home in this coach 
to-night ; you have an invitation to go back, at your option: I 
will reserve a seat for you with pleasure;” and before Lydia 
had time to accept or decline the civility, he had said “Good 
morning,” and was off. 

At the door stood Mrs. Heath, waiting to make some inquiries 
as to her daughter’s unexpected return, which: presently slid 
into inquiries about Mr. Timothy Sumner; “And who,” she 
asked, “ was that bumpkin who assisted you to alight ?” 

The color rose to Lydia’s cheek as she answered that she 
didn’t know the gentleman; she hardly knew why, but she 
unwillingly heard him characterized in this manner, was half 
angry with her mother, and resolved at once to return to Mr. 
Sumner’s in the afternoon. 

“ Archibald will not know,” she said to herself, “that I am 
informed he is going; nor do I go for that reason; in fact I 
don’t much expect he will return; Dinah said he would be 


LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS. 187 


gone a week; but I promised Mr. Sumner to come back, and 
I don’t know what arrangements he may have made to-day : 
I must not disappoint him.” And selecting from her ward- 
robe more carefully than before, and arranging her curls with 
peculiar care, she awaited the coach. 

In due time it presented itself, eight inside—just room for 
one more. The acquaintance of the morning was there, and 
had reserved beside himself a seat for Lydia: she looked at the 
different passengers, and could see no one who answered her 
ideas of Archibald; and, ashamed of the interest she had ex- 
pressed in the morning, she would not so much as allude to 
him in any way, and was now quite as much over-reserved’as 
she had been over-familiar in the morning. The stranger was 
certainly both handsome and agreeable, but her manner abated 
not from its formality. This for no fault of his; she was angry 
with herself for having talked with him so freely; for having 
gone home, and then for having started back again. If Archi- 
bald were in the coach she didn’t blame his sisters for being 
ashamed of him; and when it stopped at Mr. Sumner’s door, 
she looked curiously to see which was he. ‘The stranger 
- seemed to notice it, for as he handed her out he smiled: Archi- 
bald was not there. The third day after her arrival the ladies 
were invited to a dinner party in Clovernook, but Lydia with 
the thawing of the snow had caught cold, and did not feel like 
going, and being by this time sufficiently at home, was per- 
mitted to remain for half a day alone, Mr. Sumner accompany- 
ing his daughters. 

When she grew tired of reading, she went into the kitchen 
and assisted Dinah about making pies. 

“ Just tend the baking, Miss,” said Dinah, “while I go to 
the barn and ask Cato to get me three eggs;” but Lydia skipt 
away herself for the eggs. The door was wide open, the snow 
melting from the roof and falling in great cold masses along the 
sill, and the floor covered with yellow sheaves for threshing. 
Cato was not there, and hearing some one on the scaffold above, 
she called out, “Is that you?’ And hearing a responsive 
“Yes.” she added “Come down here; you are the very man I 
want.” 


188 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“At your service, Miss,” said a voice which seemed not un- 
familiar, and in the person who had slidden down by the rope, 
and was dropping on one knee at her feet, Lydia recognised 
the gentleman with whom she had travelled in the coach. 


A year after that little incident, as the snow was one night 
drifting against the windows of one of the prettiest cottages in 
the whole neighborhood of Clovernook, two persons sat before 
the fire talking, and seeming by their unromantic ease to be hus- 
band and wife. “Poor old man!” said the woman, at the con- 
clusion of some story to which she had been listening; “and 
so he gave you this nice farm and pretty cottage, and then went 
back to the wilderness to die alone ?” 

“It was no sacrifice,” answered the young man, “he was cap- 
tured by the savages when so young, and has learned to love 
their rude life so well, that civilization has no charms for him; 
certainly it had none when it involved the pride that despised 
him ; and besides, Jonathan’s Hill will perpetuate his memory 
when we are forgotten.” 

“I did not think you selfish before,” said his partner, the 
tears coming to her eyes, and then, as if ashamed of what she 
had uttered, she added, quickly, “ And he knew nothing of the 
phantom gun and ghost 2?” 

“And you, too, misunderstand me,” said the young man 
half-reproachfully ; “I urged him to share our home, but he 
would not, and as I said before, he made no sacrifice, or less 
than he would, had he remained.” She dropt her head till her 
curls quite concealed her blushes, and a smile, playfully mali- 
cious, came over the handsome features of the young man, as 
he added, “ Well, well, if I am selfish, I am the very man you 
wanted, for you told me so; else, perhaps, Lydia Heath might 
never have been the wife of Archibald Sumner.” 

The wife shook back her curls and smiled, as the kiss of re- 
conciliation was pressed on her forehead, saying, “ What a 
pretty name Arch. is; and if I did tell you you were the man 
I wanted, blindly though it were, time has proven that I was 
not mistaken.” 


THE CLAVERELS. 189 


* 


- THE CLAVERELS. 


Tur July sun was oppressively hot—no breath of air stirred 
the dusty leaves, and the clouds, light and fleecy, gave no 
indication of rain. There were no bird songs to cheer the hay- 
makers; and as I am not writing poetry, I don’t feel at liberty 
to say there were, though I would fain give the persons of whom 
I write all the pleasant accessories that conie within the limits 
of rural probability. The eldest of these persons was Mr. 
Claverel, a thin, pale man, of about five-and-forty ; the other 
three were his sons, two of them stout young men of nineteen 
and twenty-one, the other, two or three years older, and of much 
thinner and slighter proportions. The younger two, David and 
Oliver, were moving slowly, half-bent over the thick green 
swaths which they cut as they proceeded, and Mr. Claverel | 
followed a little behind, pitching and tossing the ridges of grass 
to facilitate its drying. His long, sandy hair, parted in front, 
and combed back either way, was wet with perspiration, and 
hung down his neck in half-curled slips; and, though the heat 
twinkled and glimmered all about him, he wore beneath his 
outer shirt an under one of red flannel always, an indispensable 
article of his apparel. His vest and trowsers were of some 
dark woollen material; and thick, heavy boots, and a broad- 
rimmed black fur hat—for he wore no coat—completed his cos- 
tume. The sun was some two or three hours on the western 
slope, and they had been at work hard, and in silence, since 
noon, when Mr. Claverel, looking up, perceived that one of the 
mowers was missing, and throwing down his rake, and taking 
from his hat a handkerchief of red silk, dotted with little white 


190 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


spots, he wiped his face and hands, and climbing on a winrow 
of hay, looked eagerly about the field, which was cut diagonally 
by a deep hollow, so that a considerable portion was still out 
of view. His bright-blue eyes sparkled anger as he failed to 
discover the object of his search, for he was a man of quick 
passions; and he called angrily, first to,yone and then to the 
other of the sons at work, to make inquiry about the one who 
was missed. 

“He says his scythe is so dull he can’t work,” said David, 
sheltering his eyes and looking at his father, who replied—* I 
guess most likely he is so dull himself he can’t work, Tell him 
to make his scythe sharp, if it’s dull. Does he expect it will 
sharpen itself?” 

“T don’t know, sir,” said David; “I know mine don’t,” and 
bending down, he resumed his task. 

Mr. Claverel paused a moment, perplexed, and then adjust- 
ing his handkerchief within his hat, so that one corner was 
visible over the left eye, he set off in the direction of a stunted 
walnut that grew at a short distance, in the hollow. The slope 
was no sooner gained than he perceived, stretched at full length 
in the shadow, and surrounded by the tall grass, the truant son. 
His head was raised on one hand, and in the other he held a 
stick, with which he was coiling and uncoiling a black snake, 
which he seemed recently to have killed. 

“Ts that you, Richard?” said the father, in a tone indicative 
of no very pleasant humor. 

“ Yes, sir,” said the idler, partly rising, for he stood in fear 
of his father, and then, ashamed of having betrayed such a feel- 
ing, sank back, and resumed his sport, when Mr. Claverel con- 
tinued, “Is this the way you expect to earn your bread? 
why, you don’t earn your salt!” Richard made no reply, and 
his father, coming a little nearer, said, ‘‘ Why are you not at 
work ? 


‘He that would thrive must rise at five, 
He that has thriven may lie till seven ;’” 


for he had always some wise saw of this sort at his command. 
Richard answered, that he was not well; to which Mr. Claverel 


THE CLAVERELS. 191 


merely echoed, incredulously, “ Not well!” and then added, “If 
you are really sick, sir, (this was a style Mr. Claverel always 
used when speaking to a child with whom he was displeased), 
go to the house and bring a coffee-pot of cold water to the field. 
Do you think, sir, you have strength enough to do that ?” 

Richard said nothing, but slowly rising, proceeded to obey 
his orders. <A little ashamed of the deceit he had practised, 
he walked very slowly, as though it was with difficulty he 
could walk at all. He saw his two brothers bravely fronting 
the sun, and looked very intently in an opposite direction, for 
some pangs of conscience disturbed him; then as he walked on 
he tried to excuse himself by saying his scythe was too dull to 
admit of his mowing, and that he was not well at any rate. 
He was not, however, self-deceived, and he secretly resolved that 
when he should have taken the water to the field, he would 
resume mowing, and work heartily till night. 

He was constitutionally unfitted to labor, and really believed 
himself possessed of talents, which the most unfortunate com- 
bination of circumstances continually crushed. In fact, he had 
intellectual gifts, in some sort, enough to render him dissatisfied 
with the position of a mere laborer, but not enough to lift him 
out of that position. 

He read, in a very careless manner, such books as came in his 
way, rarely appreciatively, for he had not strength and grasp 
of mind sufficient to get thoroughly at the truth of things. He 
had no one to encourage or sympathize with him in the least, 
no one to give to his mind the bent it was capable of. True, 
his mother concealed his faults as much as possible, and magni- 
fied his little ailings, of which he affected to have a great many, 
thus screening him from the work he so much despised, and 
was constantly endeavoring to avoid. Nevertheless, he was 
sometimes goaded by his conscience, sometimes by his father’s 
anger, into reluctant effort at a task, on which occasions he 
never failed to curse the evil star that made him a clown and a 
drudge. Mr. Claverel was an active, intelligent, pains-taking 
farmer ; his two younger sons, a little dull, and plodding, though 
contented and industrious ; but Richard, he often said, was the 
millstone suspended about his neck. On the day I write of he 


192 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


had, as I said, resolved to go back and mow till night, though 
it should kill him, as he said to himself; not that there were 
any reasonable grounds for such an unhappy fear; his appetite 
was uniformly good; his sleep sound; and there was nothing 
to justify such ill-boding. Nevertheless, the feeling was genuine, 
and whenever there was no possibility of escape, he fell back on 
that noble resolution, and said, though it killed him, he would 
do it. 

The old oaken bucket came up from the well dripping with 
cool water, and the bright tin-pot was filled to overflowing. 
He hesitated—he did not know precisely why—the heat twinkled 
over the dusty stubbles in a forbidding way—the low, spreading 
apple tree dropped its cool shadows on the stone pavement by 
the door very pleasantly—a little way off, beneath a shed of 
clapboards, his mother was baking currant pies and ginger 
cakes—the strings of her cap were untied, and the towel she 


f 
4 


wore as an apron, covered with flour—she looked very warm ~ 


and tired, but patient still; and when she saw Richard standing 
by the well with his pot of water poised on the curb, she 
smiled, and, coming towards him, inquired if he were sick 
again. 

‘¢ Not much,” said he, smiling graciously, as if it were through 
much pain, for he meant that his mother should understand that 
he was sick, in spite of his assertion. 


“Poor boy,” she said, putting her hands on his forehead, 


“vou have some fever; you must sit here in the shade, for you 
don’t. look a bit well, and are not able to go to the field.” 


“ But I must take this water,” suggested Richard, “ for father 


is angry because I stopped work ; and if I don’t go back again, 
he’ll tear the house down, for aught I know.” 

However, he sat down on the chair which his mother provi- 
ded, half believing, since she had said so, that he was not very 
well. A small bottle of camphor, Mrs. Claverel’s infallible 
remedy for all disease, whether fevers or wounds, burns or rheu- 
matisms, was speedily brought, and, having inhaled some of its 
odor, the sick youth professed himself better; on which the 
kind-hearted and mistaken woman brought forth one of the 
fresh-baked pies, the delicious fragance of which tempted him 


- THE CLAVERELS. 198 


to try to eat; making which attempt she left him, and herself 
carried the water to the field. 

“Oh, Dolly, what brought you here?” exclaimed Mr. Clave- 
rel, throwing down his rake and hurrying toward his wife, who 
was sweating under her burden. 

Explanations followed, but the story of Richard’s being sick 
failed to touch the heart of Mr. Claverel; and for the first time 
in his life he called his wife a foolish woman; and in a tone 
that had in it less of tenderness than harshness, though he really 
felt kindly, told her to go back to the house, and never come 
into the harvest field again through such sunshine. Mrs. Clave- 
rel put a pie she had brought, and her coffee-pot, into the hands 
of her husband without saying a word—she was not angry, 
but “her feelings were hurt.” She had been all day busily at 
work ; and as she went forth, tired and worn, promised herself 
an over-recompense, in a consciousness of happiness conferred ; 
she was disappointed ; and as she turned away, more than one 
tear moistened the olive cheek that had long since, in the 
struggle and turmoil of life, lost all its roses. She saw not the 
flock of twenty lambs that started up before her from the fence 
corners, and, with horns curling over their ears ran, closely 
huddled together, down the dusty lane ; nor yet, a little further 
on, the beautiful doves, milk white and soft brown, and with 
gold and purple flashing from their wings and bosoms, plump 
and round, that with nodding crests walked a little way before 
her, and then, as her step came too near, with a sudden whirr 
and rustle, flew to the accustomed shed, and settled themselves 
in a long, silent row. At the spring, near the old bridge, two 
cows were drinking: another time they would have made a 
gentle and comfort-speaking picture; now they were meaning- 
less; and passing on, over a little hill, and through a gate, and 
past the tall, slender pear tree, from the cone-like top of which 
the bright, shining feathers of a peacock were trailing down the 
sunshine, she reached the porch, and sat down in the shadow of 
the apple tree. Home was no refuge and no shelter from 
sorrow ; a place to toil and suffer in—that was all it seemed 
just then. 

Richard, with the camphor bottle in one hand, and a large 

9 


: 


iy 


194 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


volume in the other, sat with his chair thrust back on two feet, 
and his head leaned against the wall, reading and yawning al- 
ternately. An old eh hen, with ruffled feathers, and a strip 
of red flannel tied to her tail, (a device adopted by housewives 
sometimes to break up intimely “‘settings,”) was picking the 
crumbs from the dish which had held the pie. The young man 
did not offer his mother the chair on which he sat, though no 
other was near, nor notice her in any way, until she asked him 
if he felt better; on which he muttered, half-inaudibly, that he 
didn’t know as he did. This was the truth, inasmuch as he had 
not been ill at all, and he took some credit to himself for having 
said so. 

“What are you reading?” said Mrs. Claverel presently. 

Richard made no reply, except by turning the back of the vol- 
ume toward her, thus presenting the device of a wind-mill, in 
bright gilt, knowing very well that it would convey no idea to 
her mind, or at least not the correct one. She made no further 
inquiry, however, feeling that it was some lesson of wisdom al- 
together beyond her apprehension, but arose, and went about 
her household cares. 

Meantime the two younger sons sat on the shady side of a 
hay-stack, eating the currant pie, and drinking from the pot of 
cold water, while Mr. Claverel continued vigorously pitching 
the hay into long green ridges—he didn’t want anything to eat. 

By little and little the heat diminished, till at last the sun 
rested in the topmost limb of a huge oak that threw its shadow 
far across the hay-field. Mrs. Claverel was laying her cloth 
for supper under the low porch, when Richard, putting down 
his book with an expression of contempt, said he could write a 
better one himself. 

Mrs. Claverel smiled, and said, “Tl dare say! but what is 
your book, son ?” 

_ Richard put his finger on the wind-mill again, saying, “I 
showed you once,” and left the house, muttering something to 
himself about the simple set he lived with. His father, he 
knew, would shortly be at home, and he must either pretend to 
have recovered and go to work, or affect to be sick and go to 
bed—else put himself out of reach of the storm which sooner or 


THE CLAVERELS. 195 


later was sure to come after such premonitions as he had al 
ready received. 

Mounted on a little bay horse which he called Buckephalus, 
(Bucephalus,) and the rest of the family Richard’s horse, he 
soon appeared before the door, and, suffering his mother to 
draw a bucket of water for the pawing charger on which he sat, 
said, with an air of mingled impudence and importance, “If 
the old man wants to know where I am, tell him I am gone to 
Jerusalem.” 

To say “father,” made him appear boyish, and as though un- 
der restraint, he fancied—hence the adoption of that elegant 
title, “the old man.” This, though shocking to the feelings of 
his mother, she did not reprove, partly from the blind love she 
bore her son, and partly from her dread of domestic eruptions. 
And up to this time, Mr. Claverel had been kept in ignorance 
of half the ill-temper and ill-behavior of his eldest son. 

The cloud of dust had scarcely disappeared behind the fleet 
hoofs of “ Buckephalus,” when Mr. Claverel, in a mood half. 
petulant and half-sorrowful, entered his domicile, first, how- 
ever, having made his toilette for supper, a process consisting 
simply of washing his face and hands in a large tub of water 
which was standing by the well—a sort of family basin—put- 
ting down the muslin sleeves over the red ones, which, during 
the hours of labor, were always rolled back to the elbow, but- 
toning his vest, and combing his hair: an example regularly 
imitated by the younger sons. Richard thought all out-of-doors 
too large a dressing-room, and made his personal renovations 
within his own chamber. | 

Mrs. Claverel dispensed the fragrant tea in silence, and with- 
out once lifting her eyes; but it was useless, the inward sorrow 
had worked itself to the surface. Mr. Claverel, who understood 
it all, made some unusual manifestations of tenderness. 

“There, Dolly,” said he, offering her the easy chair, which 
was always at “his place,” but she shook her head; whereupon 
the troubled husband reached for the wand of feathers with 
which she sedulously brushed away the flies, without giving 
herself time to partake of the nice supper she had spread. But 
Mrs. Claverel had the headache, and “ didn’t want a mouthful.” 


196 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


“She had too much to do,” Mr. Claverel said; and as soon as 
ne was through the hurry of harvest, he would set about finding 
a “girl.” Mrs. Claverel bent her head lower and lower, as if 
sipping her tea, but the kind manner and words of her husband 
quite overcame her; and abruptly leaving the table, she retired 
to her own chamber, where, after some natural tears, thinking, it 
must be owned, a little hardly of her husband, she began to 
olame circumstances, and finally only blamed herself, like the 
simple-minded, kind-hearted woman she was. Having opened 
the shutters and drawn the arm-chair to the table, on which lay 
the newspaper and the Bible, she trimmed the lamp, and with 
some further arrangements, especially with reference to the 
comfort of her husband, she descended, with the most amiable 
manner imaginable. Mr. Claverel was groping about in the 
thickening twilight, for he could not find the lamp, in awkward 
attempts to get the tea things out of the way. 

“Ts that you, Dolly ?” he said, surprised to see her, espe- 
cially in so genial a mood, for she was actually humming— 


‘¢ When I can read my title clear 
To mansions in the skies,” &e. 


“Yes Samuel, it is me,” she said, pausing in the middle of 
the stanza, and removing the tea-pot from the table to the cup- 
board, while Mr. Claverel, his dejected countenance suddenly 
illumined, performed a like office with the sugar-bowl, joining 
in— 

‘‘ Tl] bid farewell to every fear, 
And wipe my weeping eyes.” 


When the hymn was concluded, they talked of the warm 


ee ee ee 


weather, of the harvest, and of the neighbors, both carefully | 


avoiding the subject uppermost in their thoughts. 

At last Mr. Claverel said, “1 wish I had apprenticed Richard 
to the blacksmith’s trade, long ago—‘ fast bind, fast find, you 
know, Dolly; where is the boy ?” 

Mrs. Claverel didn’t say he had gone to Jerusalem, but that 
she guessed likely he was gone to get some new shoes set on 
his horse. 


ee ee eS 


THE CLAVERELS. 197 


_ “He is a bad boy, Dolly,” said the father. 

“ Not so bad, but unfortunate,” said the mother; “it seems 
as if he has bad luck in everything he undertakes. Poor boy, 
he is not able to work, but he has such a love of books; hadn’t 
we better send him to college, Sammy ?” 

The suggestion gave rise to a considerable discussion; for 
Mr. Claverel could not see it in precisely the same light in 
which his wife saw it. ‘“ Richard,” he said, “did not like delv- 
ing in the sile much, and he feared he would not work in the 
mental field much better.” 

“But,” urged the mother, “if he can’t do one thing, perhaps 
he can another. I am sure we ought to give him a chance.” 
Here she took from the bureau two new red flannel shirts, say- 
ing, as she laid them in the lap of her husband, “ Did you ever 
see such a pretty red? But don’t you think, Sammy, we ought 
to do as I said about Richard ?” 

Mr. Claverel set great store by flannel shirts—especially red 
flannel ones. He felt of the soft texture, held the garments up 
admiringly, and said, “If the virtoo of red flannel was known, 
there would be no need of rheumatis ; ‘an ounce of preventive 
is worth a pound of cure,’ Dolly.” 

“ But what do you think about Richard?” said Mrs. Claverel. 
“You know better than I do. Beautiful shirts, beautiful !” 


198 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


THE STUDENT. 


Some eight or ten days after this conversation, Richard 
Claverel, dressed as beseemed a gentleman student, was on his 
way to the seminary in which he was to be fitted for college. 
On one arm he carried a satchel of books, and across his saddle 
was a pair of well filled bags, in which his mother had put as 
many new fine shirts and carefully darned stockings as he would 
be likely to need during the term, though it was proposed that 
he should come home on a visit in a month, as Elmwood, the 
place of his destination, was but ten miles away. He seemed 
little to favor this proposal, it is true; and when his mother 
tearfully entreated that he would not fail to come, he said he 
would if he couldn’t stay away; that he was not certain he 
should come home at all; at least, not till he had finished the 
preliminary course, but that she and the old man could come up 
to Elmwood and see him, commencement times. When, how- 
ever, he was fairly off, his heart misgave him ; he looked back 
and saw his father leaning over the gate, watching him, and re- 
membered his last words, “ Only the fool hates the school ;” 
he saw his mother standing under the low porch, just as he had 
left her; his young sisters, Martha and Jane, were shouting, as 
they played at “hide and seek” —it mattered little to them that 
Dick was leaving home—he had never helped them build a 
play-house, but always killed their pet kittens, and called them- 
selves little simpletons, because they preferred dish-washing to 
grammar—so, on the whole, they were rather glad to be rid of 
him. 3 

Slowly wending down the lane, with axes over their shoul- 
ders, and without once regretting his absence, were David and 


THE STUDENT. 199 


Oliver. Richard had lightened their labors but little, and it was 
scarce a cause for tears that he was gone. Looking back, he 
saw all this, and half wished he had staid at home, and borne 
his part manfully and cheerfully ; very glad would he have 
been of any plausible pretext for returning ; but there was none 
—he had shaped his course with his own hands, and the fixed 
fact closed about him, and left him no chance of escape. Though 
twenty-three, he had never been from home at all, save for a 
day or two, with his mother, to visit relations, and a desolate, 
home-sick feeling came over him, as the road struck into a 
dense thick beech wood, flat and low, quite shutting the red 
brick homestead from his view. He reined in his horse, dis- 
mounted, and, sitting down on a mossy log, mused long, some- 
times so earnestly and coherently, that it might be said, he 
thought. | 

“The little girls are playing; I suppose they are glad Iam 
gone ; and David and Oliver have by this time felled a tree; I 
wonder what one—perhaps the hollow sycamore that grew by 
the spring—perhaps the hickory with the shelving bark, where 
I caught the squirrel for which Jane cried, and I would not give 
it her—or the beech, that grew in the cornfield—likeliest they 
have felled that for back-logs; let me see, they are just three 
feet and a half in length. And father, what is he doing? (he 
didn’t think of him as the old man,) reading the Bible, I guess, 
to mother, who is making bread in the shade of the apple-tree. 
Dear good woman! I wish I had told her I would come in a 
month! I wish, when she asked me what I was reading, I had 
said Don Quixote, and not showed her the windmill.” 

A sudden fancy struck him; perhaps some book, or some 
article of clothing, quite necessary, had been forgotten. He 
overhauled his luggage eagerly, as one looks for a newly-missed 
treasure, but all in vain; nothing had been forgotten ; so with 
reluctance, and as one cast out of the home where all his hopes 
and affections centred, he re-arranged his effects, feeling that 
they were poor and scanty; and then, taking from his pocket a 
small purse, he emptied its contents, a few coins, into his hand, 
counted them over, and replaced them, with a sigh. “ This is a 
dark, thick wood,” he said, “I might remain here forever— 


200 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


what am I to anybody? What am I to the world? even at 
home they don’t care for me.” He paused a moment, and 
added, “ well, why should they ? I never did anything to make 
them love me. I have been an idler and a burden from the 
first; but it was my fortune; I could not help it; if I could, I 
would have done better; it is a mere lie that we make circum- 
stances; circumstances make us. It is no merit of mine that I 
am not a thief or a murderer; if I had the training and the 
temptation which others have had that are so, I might have 
been no better. How do I know what I should have been 
under different circumstances? If I had been bound to a hard 
master, as my father was, and made to drive oxen, and burn 
logs, and dig ditches, all day, without ever reading a book, or 
seeing any persons of sense or refinement, I might have married 
Dolly Tompkins—did as he did—likely I should. And if I 
had, would I have done any worse than I am doing? No! a 
great deal better. I can see readily enough how others might 
have done, and for myself I am always going to do something, 
but the time never comes when I begin. I have professed to 
begin now, why do I not? There will never be a better time: 
weakness and indecision, we must part.” He arose, after this 
contradictory and crooked soliloquy, as one determined to make 
his actions meet his convictions of duty, mounted his little bay, 
and rode briskly forward. 

I have often thought since, if he had been blest with the coun- 
sel and encouragement of some kind and clear-sighted friend, 
who, seeing through the frailties and foibles of his character, 
could have discerned the higher and better qualities beneath, his 
natural wilfulness and waywardness might have been checked, 
and his weakness built into strength. I was too young to know 
it then, had too little appreciation, too little forbearance, too 
false and foolish an estimate of myself, and it is too late now. 
Often when I think of him—for I knew him well, and in the 
elm shadows that sweep against the house where I was born we 
have sat on many a summer afternoon when we were children: 
that is a long time ago, for my feet have pressed the summit 
whenceforward the way is down—down, where in darkness 
moans ever and ever the river of Death; when I think of him, 


THE STUDENT. 201 


as I said, I incline to his own soft interpretation, and almost 
believe he was really ill-starred. 

Under the sorrow and the struggle, the weakness and the rub. 
bish of years, | go down daily where the airs are gentlest, the 
fountains brightest, and the birds are singing most sweetly, ana 
laying back the shroud-folds, souls long entered on new spheres 
reanimate again pale dust, and my dearest playmates come 
back to me, crowned with beautiful innocence, just as they went 
away. It is here I like best to meet with Richard, with his 
golden curls blowing against my face, to turn over the picture 
books—Cock Robin, and another one, the name of which I for. 
get, but larger and of a more serious. character, telling about 
Saul, and Samuel, and David, and Goliath, and how 


‘¢ The lowing kine unguided went 
By the directest road, 
When the Philistines homeward sent 
The ark of Israel’s God.” 


Our library was not very large, but to us it was “ ever charm- 
ing, ever new,” and we didn’t know that any other children had 
more than we, and so were satisfied. 

But let me not linger: as the waves close over the drowning 
man, and the stream ripples on in the sunshine as before, time 
closes, to-day, over the places we occupied yesterday. Even 
in the home circle, after a short absence—we come back and 
find it narrowed, or another in our place, and no room for us 
any more. 

The harvest was done, and the cattle were turned into the 
newly-shaven meadows—how they ran hither and thither, crowd- 
ing from the tufts of fresh white clover their weaker fellows 
and, though full to repletion, feeding still. The corn was not 
yet ripe, and for man and beast there was a holyday. Mr. 
Claverel was come home from town, and sat in the porch, read- 
ing the newspaper. He was tired, but good-humored ; tired, 
because he had ridden the black mare instead of driving her in 
the carriage: she was as good a creature, he said, as there was 
in the world, if she only had Tom on the near side to draw the 


load; so, in consideration of her “balky” propensities, he 
Q* 


202 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


generally used the saddle, unless Tom occupied the aforesaid 
position. He was good-humored because everything had gone 
on smoothly since the departure of Richard. Martha and Jane 
stood at the kitchen table, busy with the contents of the market 
basket; there were great brown paper packages of sugar and 
coffee; one smaller one in a thin, white paper, probably tea, 
from the exclamation, “Oh, isn’t it good!” made as they in- 
haled its fragrance; then there were numberless little square 
packages in blue papers, labelled, “Fine Ground Ginger,” 
“ Best Allspice,” &c. These they seized eagerly, and demanded 
guesses, each of the other, as to what they held ; and whether a 
guess were right or wrong the laugh that followed was equally 
hearty. 

David and Oliver were cutting wood, at the door, merely for 
pastime, for they had been chopping sturdily all day in the 
forest, and this was but playing with time until tea should be 
ready, to which, owing to health and exercise, they were always 
prepared to do honor; while Mrs. Claverel, that ever-busy 
housewife, was at her evening cares. The snowy cloth was 
already spread, garnished with sundry temptations—golden but- 
ter, and delicious bread, and ripe blackberries, and the pitcher 
of cream, like floating silver mixed with liquid gold. No place 
was arranged for Richard, and Martha and Jane had been pro- 
moted to the occupancy of his deserted chamber, and all the 
articles he left at home had been carefully packed away by the 
provident and loving hands of her whose mantle of charity was 
wide enough to cover all the faults of her child. 

There was a growl from the sleepy watch-dog as the gate 
creaked on its hinges, followed by a rushing forth and a defiant 
barking; suddenly he paused, and, crouching in the pathway, 
began to whine his welcome ;- the girls left their basket, and ran 
to the door; David and Oliver put down their axes; and Mr. 
Claverel, taking off his spectacles, wiped his bright blue eyes, 
-and looked around the corner of the porch. 

“ Oh! dear, he’s done great things,” exclaimed both the girls 
at once, 

“He has finished his education, I expect,” said Oliver, and 
the two boys resumed their chopping. 


i 
7 
. 
d 
q 
3 


THE STUDENT. 203 


“Dolly,” called Mr. Claverel, looking toward the kitchen, 
“ Mercy on us, Dolly, Richard has come home.” 

“Ts it possible 2?” said Mrs. Claverel; “poor boy, he must 
be sick; why, it is only two weeks since he went away.” But 
whether sick or well, Richard was sure of a welcome from her. 
Martha and Jane eyed him curiously, affecting the laughter 
with which they seemed to be convulsed, as though in fact he 
had made himself so ludicrous that laughter was unavoidable. 
Mr. Claverel resumed his paper with an uneasy gesture and a 
frowning brow, as though the arrival were unexpected and un- 
welcome. Mrs. Claverel alone went forth, half hesitatingly, 
half cordially, to meet him. Asif he did not see her, he drop- 
ped his eyes to the ground and led his Bucephalus (he had 
learned to pronounce the name) back to the stables, with 
his father and sisters on one side, and his brothers on the other, 
but without noticing them, or receiving any notice. Supper 
was delayed some time for his coming, but he did not present 
himself, and Martha was sent forth to bid him come—presently 
returning with the intelligence that she could not find him; 
upon which, Mr. Claverel drew up his chair to the table, say- 
ing, ‘Come boys, come girls,” in a tone that indicated little 
concern about Richard, and Mrs. Claverel was reluctantly 
forced to pour the tea. i 

The supper, though unusually good, was not relished well by 
anybody, and was partaken of in silence. When it was finished, 
and Mr. Claverel had taken a kettle of warmed milk to feed the 
weaning calves, and gone out of the house, Mrs. Claverel put 
the teapot close to the fire, and sent Jane and Martha together, 
with an earnest injunction to look carefully all about, and see 
if they could not find Richard, and tell him to come in at once, 
while his father was gone out. Ona heap of straw that lay on 
the barn floor they found him stretched at length; but he re- 
fused to go in, saying he was sick; and it was not until after 
nightfall, and when he was assured that the family were retired 
to rest, that his mother herself could persuade him to do so, 

He was ashamed and mortified at his conduct, and as usual 
sought to palliate it in some measure with the old story: he 
had had bad luck! The teachers were all blockheads, and 


204 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


as for his boarding-house, he would rather live in a smoke 
house and cook for himself; he didn’t think his bed had ever seen 
clean sheets, and the pillow was so small that it actually made 
his head ache to sleep on it—so much so, that he was utterly 
incapable of study; besides, the students were a set of fools 
that thought they knew every thing, whereas they scarcely 
knew beans. In view of all this, and much more not worth re- 
peating, he had resolved to prosecute his studies at home ; he 
didn’t see why he could not learn just as well there as any- 
where, and his mother didn’t see either ; so it was resolved that 
his room should be fitted up as a study, and that, without going 
from home, he should devote himself entirely to books. Mar- 
tha and Jane, delighted as they were with their new quarters, 
having the secret promise of new dolls, were induced to give 
him peaceable possession ; Mrs. Claverel mediating as she best 
could between the unstable, home-sick baby and his indignant 
father and brothers. 

“You know, Sammy,” she said, “ Richard has always been 
used to a good home and a kind father, who made the most 
bountiful provision for him.” Mrs. Claverel had tact. Mr. 
Claverel was a little flattered. He had, he said, “ tried to 
provide for his own household.” 

“ Yes, and you have provided—nobody can say to the con- 
trary of that,” was the timely reply; “and I guess Richard has 
found it out now, and will hereafter ‘better appreciate his 
blessings.” 

Mr. Claverel said he hoped so. This was quite encouraging ; 
and, secure of a little vantage-ground—but in justice io her, I 
must say, with no intention of deceiving, but only desirous of 
making all smooth—she went on to say, “I expect it would be 
a little hard for any of us to go from home, among strangers, 


where everything was new and different from what we had- 


been used to, and stay contentedly. I am sure I should not 
want to live as Richard said he had to—poor boy !” 

So, by dint of Mrs. Claverel’s management, and Richard’s 
pretty sedulous application for a few days, the new arrange- 
ment went forward, as a matter of course, with only the occa- 
sional jar of Mr. Claverel calling Richard “ the sick student ;” 


THE STUDENT. 205 


and of Martha and Jane twitting him, whenever he displeased 
them, with, “ Eh, you got home sick, and had to come back to 
mother !” 

At the end of two weeks, however, he began to grow weary, 
and to think his room a very small and lonesome place. That 
was not the way to learn, he thought, with no teacher, and no 
one to encourage him. He wanted some sympathy, and his 
mother’s bread and butter, excellent as they were, began to be 
taken as matters of course. He ceased to try to make him- 
self agreeable to persons he considered so much beneath him ; 
he became moody, and silent, and selfish. To see people about 
him happy and contented, only aggravated his restless and 
wretched state of mind. Hour after hour he sat alone in his 
chamber with a closed volume in his hand, and gazing on the 
vacant walls or floor. He wished to be a gentleman, without 
knowing how—to be a great man, without energy to employ 
the means by which greatness is attained. Sometimes he 
fancied there was no niche in creation suited to him, that effort 
was useless; and sometimes he indulged in vague dreams of 
uncertain advantages; some unforeseen and wonderful event 
would suddenly lift him into a great position. He never 
walked without keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the ground, 
lest he should miss the treasure that he expected; every rap 
startled him; he thought perhaps they were come to place a 
crown on his brows! Alas, they never did. 

One afternoon, taking a book under his arm, he drew his hat 
over his eyes and went out without any definite purpose, and 
after wandering listlessly from place to place for a while, he 
stretched himself on the grass, in the shadow of an elm that 
grew by the road-side, and watched the passers by—now a 
pedlar bending under a huge pack, and now a teamster whistling 
by the side of his heavily-laden wagon. 

“How are you, Mr. Claverel !” said a good humored, merry 
voice; and looking up, Richard saw before him the rosy face of 
the village doctor, to whom, raising his head on his hand, but 
without rising, he made some sort of despondent reply. 

“Tf you had,” said the medical man, “ one half of my duties 
to attend to, you would have no time for sighing; at least over 


206 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


imaginary woes. Just think of the real misery I am called on 
to witness in the course of my professional duty—-sickness, 
sorrow, pain, death—death, pain, sickness, sorrow !” 

“To die,” said Richard, “is the best thing belonging to life 
] think I should like your profession.” 

“ Get in,” said Dr. Hilton, making room beside himself in 
the nice little buggy he drove, “I will take you to-day on trial. 
I have a round that I think will be interesting to you. In the 
first place, I go to see a boy who has a broken leg, which will 
probably have to be amputated; then to see a young man who 
is becoming perfectly unmanageable—why, sir, he yesterday 
attempted the life of his little sister, Drusilla, and I have no 
doubt he will have to be sent to the insane asylum to-day. Let 
me see: my next visit is to the widow Paxton—she that was 
burnt out in the spring, at which time she so exerted herself, to 
save some part of her furniture, as to produce effects from 
which she will never recover—six helpless orphans to leave to 
the mercy of the world, sir! Come, get in, get in.” 

And rising to his feet, and drawing down his vest, and up 
his collar, Richard did get in; but looking wistfully at the 
sharp, red gables of the farm-house, which being seen by Dr. 
Hilton, he slapped him over the shoulder, and said, “ Ah, that 


will not do, Dr. Claverel,” and, laughing, they drove away 
together, 


THE SHEEP AND THE DOGS. 207 


\ 


THE SHEEP AND THE DOGS. 


“ Wuat do you think has become of Richard ?” said Mrs. 
Claverel to her husband, the third morning after his departure. 
Mr. Claverel continued to puff his cigar and read the newspaper 
for some time after this appeal; but when the really distressed 
woman repeated, ‘‘ What do you think, Sammy?” and went on 
to say he had left everything in his room as though he expected 
to be back in a little while, that a book was open on the table, 
that his watch hung on a nail at the head of the bed, that she 
could not see as he had taken anything with him, and that it 
seemed so strange—he threw down the remnant of his cigar, 
and said, “ When he wears out his clothes and gets hungry, 
he’ll come back, Dolly, I'll warrant you. He’s gone to his un- 
cle Peter’s, like enough ; when I go to town Saturday, if I see 
anything of Peter I’ll ask him, if I think of it; but if he isn’t 
there, he’s on some wild-goose chase, so don’t fret about him— 
what can’t be cured must be endured.” 

“O, I don’t know, I don’t know; it seems to me so strange,” 
said Mrs. Claverel. 

““ What is it, mother? what is it?” said little Jane, coming 
close and looking bewildered and anxious. 

“ Never mind, never mind—children mustn’t ask questions,” 
said Mr. Claverel, and then added, “we were talking about 
your brother Richard.” 

This was no particular gratification to the child. She wanted 
to know what they were saying, and not the subject of their 
conversation; but not feeling at liberty to ask any further ques- 
tions, or to say anything more at all, Jane did not tell what 
she knew on the subject, for she had seen Richard drive away 
with Dr. Hilton. The parents were not, however, destined to 


208 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


much longer suspense. A little freckled-faced boy, whose 
closely clipped red hair stood endwise all over his head, sud- 
denly appeared, and through fright and stammering managed 
tc make known his errand, that ten of his father’s sheep had 
been killed the night before, and that he had come to see 
whether Mr. Claverel’s dog, Carlo, had been at home. 

“Why, yes, he has been at home. Here Carlo, here Carlo, 
here Carlo!” and, wagging his tail and licking his jaws, the 
huge watch-dog presented himself; upon which Mr. Claverel 
proceeded to examine and cross-examine him, as though the 
dumb animal were a prisoner at the bar. It was useless, how- 
ever: what master ever pronounced other verdict than not 
guilty, on his own dog ? | 

Meantime, the neighbors were seen hurrying in all directions 
from their own to the premises of Mr. Bates, where the sheep 
had been so unmercifully slaughtered, urged thither by curi- 
osity, and fear for their own flocks; and Mr. Claverel among 
the rest, with the red-haired boy at his side, was speedily on 
his way. ‘‘ How many did you say you lost?” he inquired. 

“Ten,” replied the boy; “ten of the very best; father 
would not have taken twenty dollars of any body’s money for 
them yesterday.” 

“Whose dogs do you suspect?” continued Mr. Claverel. 

“The fact is,” said the boy, “we suspect a dog that looked 
mightily like Carlo; I saw such a one this morning going 
across our fields towards your house. It was a big white dog, 
at any rate.” 

“It could not have been Carlo; I never heard of a white dog 
killing sheep; it is not in the nater of things.” And Mr. Cla- 
verel made no further inquiry. 


At the door of Mr. Bates, some half dozen men were stand- ~ 


ing, discussing eagerly the probabilities and possibilities of the 
disaster’s originating with such and such dogs; while a larger 
number of boys gathered in a knot at one side, and talked more 
earnestly and confidently. “Ill just bet you,” said one, “it 
was Pete Hill’s Growler.” 

“Yes,” responded another, “he is the one that set them on, 
but I expect he had half a dozen to help him.” 


THE SHEEP AND THE DOGS. 209 


“] know one dog it wasn’t,” said the first speaker, “it wasn’t 
ours; but if he should be proved guilty,” he continued, draw- 
ing himself up, “I should be willing that justice should take its 
course.” i 

At this speech there was a general murmur of admiration ; 
each boy wished that he had said it, or that he could say some- 
thing equally disinterested and noble. It was of no use, how- 
ever; two such hits could not be made in one day, and the 
group gradually dispersed and mingled with the men, among 
whom the most important personage was Mr. Bates, as of right 
he should have been. In fact he was almost reconciled to the 
loss of the ten sheep, for which, as he said, he would not have 
taken twenty dollars of any man’s money, in view of the im- 
portance to which he was suddenly elevated. 

Mrs. Bates herself, while the excitement was at its height, 
felt more of exaltation than sorrow. She could not attend to 
any of her usual avocations with the energetic ability upon 
which she prided herself, but kept constantly going to the door, 
and, feigning excuses, to the cistern and the well, in order to hear 
what was being said; and on hearing some one say, “ Have 
you any idea, sir, whose dogs it was?” and her husband reply, 
that, “If he had an idea, it would not do for him, poor as he 
was, to accuse even a rich man’s dog,” she could restrain her 
indignation and sturdy independence no longer, but said out 
aloud, addressing herself to no one in particular, “For my part, 
I think we live in a free country !” a hackneyed cry of the vul- 
gar, to which no very definite idea is attached, save that no su- 
periors are acknowledged. 

“Certainly, Mrs. Bates,” said Mr. Claverel, who caught the 
words, and was courteous enough to notice them. 

“But suppose we do, of what use is it, unless we dare say 
what we think.” 

“That is certainly among our privileges; can you not say 
what you think?” and Mr, Claverel scratched his head in a 
puzzled sort of way, without precisely knowing why he felt 
uneasy. 

“ Yes, I can,” answered the sturdy little woman, “but some 
folks can’t.” 


220 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“Who can’t?” said Mr. Claverel, laconically. 

“ Bates, for one,” she replied. 

“What does Bates think ?” 

‘He thinks a certain rich man’s dog, not a thousand miles 
from here, killed the biggest part of our sheep.” 

‘Do you mean to say it was my dog?” Mr. Claverel said, 
coming close to her, his blue eyes sparkling with sudden anger. 

“Tf the shoe fits, you must wear it—I didn’t say it was your 
dog.” 

“No, you seem afraid to say what you think, notwithstanding 
your boast about a free country. I should like to know upon 
what evidence your suspicions are founded.” 

“'The evidence of my eyes and ears. I don’t know as we 
need other evidence in this free country.” 

“Then you mean to say that you saw my dog Kill your 
sheep! I understood your boy to say they were killed in the 
night. Was itso? And if so, how did you chance to see it 2” 

By this time their discussion had attracted general attention, 
and Mrs. Bates, pleased with the opportunity of being heard, 
went on to explain the grounds of her belief, which she did on 
this wise :—“ It was along about midnight, I reckon, that I 
waked up; I don’t know what made me, for I generally sleep 
pretty sound, unless some of the children are sick, or Bates is 
going to market, and, such times, I get but little rest. Here a 
while ago I took my baby, Saryanne her name is, and went 
visiting, fool like, (Mrs. Bates was fond of visiting,) and the 
little toad took the whooping-cough; I suppose it was good 
enough for me, but how she got it was the greatest wonder in 
the world. It could be no other way than that she took it of 
somebody in the street. I remember of stopping to speak to 
one person, Polly Kitterly. I wanted to buy some pasnip seed 
—Kitterly’s folks always raised the best of vegitables—and she 
had her baby, Lizabeth Vanholt, in her arms; she’s named for 
the old man, Vanholt, and they say it’s like enough he will 
leave her a silver spoon or two when he dies. Well, I can’t 
remember, now, whether her baby’s head was towards my 
baby’s head, or whether her baby’s head was turned away from 
my baby’s head; but if her baby’s head was towards my baby’s 


THE SHEEP AND THE DOGS. 211 


head, and if her baby had the whooping-cough, it would have 
been easy for my baby to take it of her baby.” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Bates,” said Mr. Claverel, now thoroughly 
good-humored, “ but you forget about the sheep.” 

“ No I haven’t; I reckon I can speak a word in this free 
country, without talking as though I was giving state’s evi- 
dence, and must have my head cut off, if I said a word more or 
less.” 

Mr. Claverel again said “Certainly,” his smile almost deep- 
ening to laughter, and the voluble little woman, somewhat ap- 
peased, went on with, “Well, as I said, Saryanne took the 
whooping-cough, and though she had it pretty light, for she 
didn’t whoop much, Bates wouldn’t believe she had it for a 
good while; the other children took the whooping-cough of her, 
and every one of them whooped as bad as ever I saw children 
whoop with the whooping-cough, and I have seen children whoop 
with the whooping-cough till their faces were fairly black and 
blue. But since they got over the whooping-cough, I have 
scarcely been broke of my rest at all, as you may say, unless I 
have a spell of the tooth-ache, or newrology, or just before a 
rain, when my corns are troublesome ; and how I happened to 
wake up last night, I don’t know. I might have had an ugly 
dream, but I could’nt remember any of it, if I had; and yet it 
seems as if ] remember something of spreading clothes down to 
bleach in the corner of our little peach orchard, and of hearing 
dogs bark, and I think likely I heard our dog barking at the 
neighbors’ dogs” (here she looked at Mr. Claverel) “ that had 
come to kill the sheep, for our dog will be cross to other dogs 
in the night, when other dogs come where our dog is, though he 
is just as good a dog to other dogs in the daytime, and even 
along in the early part of the evening, good as any dog need be 
to other dogs; but about midnight, and on till daylight, he is 
as cross a dog to other dogs as a dog can be.” 

Meantime, Mr. Bates, who, it must be owned, looked a little 
sheepish, slipped into the house, where by dint of whipping one 
of the children he raised such a hue and cry as brought the story 
of his good wife to an untimely conclusion—the whole amount- 
ing only to this, that most probably she was awake at the very 


212 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, © 


t:me the disaster occurred, though she had no reason for such 
inference, save the vague impression of a half-remembered 
dream; and why her suspicions had fallen on Mr.-Claverel’s 
dog, she said not. It was, however, supposed to be for that 
Mr. Claverel owned more land than Mr. Bates, and that Mrs. 
Claverel sometimes wore a black silk dress, which she had ac- 
tually hired made. 

When Mrs. Bates, having rid her bosom of its perilous stuff, 
had retired within doors, Mr. J ameson, a man whose opinions 
were regarded by his neighbors as of great weight, partly because 
he spoke in a deliberate and consequential sort of way, and 
partly that he was one of the largest landed proprietors in the 
county, stepping a little aside from the group, and elevating 
himself on a block of wood, delivered this speech: “Friends 
and neighbors: Whereas we have been brought together by the 
sudden and unexpected calamity which last night, or probably 
on the morning of this very day, fell with the weight of a mill- 
stone upon William A. Bates,” (here Mr. Bates, overpaid for his 
loss, looked solemnly dignified,) “it becomes us as diligent 
seekers of justice to ascertain, if possible, the guilty perpetra- 
tors of the bloody deed ; and whether it be your dog, (suiting 
his gestures to his words,) or whether it be my dog, let the pun- 
ishment be speedy and decisive, for there are some instances, 
and in my humble opinion, friends and neighbors, this is one, 
in which severity is mercy. I would therefore respectfully sug- 
gest, and humbly as becomes me, for I see around me gray 
hairs that betoken wisdom, that Dr. Hilton be forthwith pro- 
fessionally summoned, and that he decide, or that his doctor- 
stuff decide, which of our dogs has breakfasted on mutton!” 
And, casting a look of inquiry upon his admiring audience, Mr. 
Jameson descended from the block. 

The boys volunteered, one after another, to go for the Doc- 
tor, till finally, the Jameson suggestion being unanimously ap- 
proved, the whole assembly set out in high glee. 

The village of Clovernook at that time contained but one 
three-story brick house, known by all the district round as the 
Clovernook Hotel. Here the stage coach stopped, here all bills 


of vendues, and school-house debates, and travelling shows, 


THE SHEEP AND THE DOGS. 213 


from the Babes in the Wood, to Herr Dreisbach’s lion in har 
ness, were posted. The village had also a free school and a 
select school, a milliner shop, two blacksmiths’ shops, two . 
churches, and some fifty dwelling-houses ; one of the best of 
which was Dr. Hilton’s, a wooden building, painted of a bright 
yellow, with doors and shutters of green, and garnished with a 
tin sign, in two places. In front of the main entrance several 
stout posts were driven in the ground, with iron rings attached, 
for convenience in fastening horses, and against one of these a 
sort of ladder was placed for the benefit of country women who 
came to get their teeth drawn, or to consult the Doctor about 
teething babies. The Hotel was nearly opposite, and the im- 
mediate neighborhood was considered the business part of the 
town: though it was more fashionable a mile or so out west, 
toward Squire Middleton’s, or up north where Dr. Haywood 
was living. In a dingy little house, in the edge of the village, 
lived Mr. Bates, though the farm he cultivated had many more 
retired and pretty situations for a residence; he had selected this, 
surrounded by stables and mechanics’ shops, that his wife and 
daughter might have the advantages of good society—an advan- 
tage of which the daughter availed herself pretty largely ; and 
though Mrs. Bates was proud of staying at home more and 
working harder than anybody else, she rejoiced in making her 
daughter a fine lady, as she deemed it, as she was brought up 
in idleness, and dressed in the best style, and suffered to gad 
and gossip from house to house as she pleased. 

In truth, Sally Bates was rather a pretty girl; her eyes were 
dark and bright, her cheeks full and red, her curls heavy and 
smooth, her figure, by Mrs. Bates’s rule, unexceptionable, and 
her waist more slender even than fashion required. Her temper 
was genial, and her talk exceedingly sprightly. Her particular 
talent consisted in shirking all hardships and captivating all the 
beaux, young and old, great and small, who came within her 
reach. 

No sooner had Dr. Hilton, with saddle-bags on his arm, and 
his young student by his ade appeared in sight, than, tastefully 
arrayed in white muslin, and with a wreath of artificial flowers 
around her forehead, Sally appeared at the window, drawing 


214 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. ‘a 
the curtain quite aside, that she might see how Dr. Claverel, as 
she called him, did look, though she was manifestly not unwil- 
ling that he should see how she looked in the mean time. 

“Mr. Claverel,” said Mr. Jameson, as the new-comers drew 
near, “is your oldest son, Richard, gone forth from the paternal 
roof to be initiated in the mysteries of the materia medica ?” 

Mr. Claverel looked puzzled and ashamed, as this was the 
first intimation he had had of the whereabouts of his son, and in 
his bewilderment he forgot to make any reply. But Mr. Bates, 
taking advantage of the opportunity to say something spiteful, 
said he didn’t think Mr. Claverel had much control of the young 
Doctor, since his return from college. 

General expressions of surprise followed, to the great morti- 
fication of Mr. Claverel, of course; and without waiting for the 
adjustment of the difficulty, or even asking a single question of 
Richard, he abruptly departed ; not, ‘however, till Mr. Bates 
had time to say he hoped Dr. Claverel’s professional career 
would not be confined to the sphere in which it was likely to 
open. Richard, presenting a sort of halfslovenly, half-genteel 
appearance, was not much less mortified than his father, at 
being so unexpectedly brought in contact with him; it was not, 
however, very long before his attention was attracted by the 
bright eyes and flowing curls of Sally Bates, and he was pre- 
sently so completely absorbed by the arrowy glances, and 
saucily bewitching tosses of the girl, as to quite forget his first 
embarrassment. 

Farther and farther the lady leaned from the window, gaily 
fluttered the roses among her curls, when suddenly a some- 
what stronger gust of air than was common, lifted the wreath 
from her head, and deposited it little way from the grave 
assembly ; and Richard, recovering it with alacrity, was a mo- 
ment afterward presenting it at the open window, and Miss 
Bates blushing and bowing her acknowledgments, 

Richard was astonished that he had never before discovered 
her beauty. A monthafter, Mr. Claverel returned one morn- 
ing from Clovernook, whither some errand had called him, with 
a hurried and unsteady step. Rumor had kindly informed him, 


THE SHEEP AND THE DOGS. 215 


beutiine she thought he ought to know, that Richard and Sally 
"Bates were shortly to be married! 

“Dolly,” he said, seating himself on the porch, as one com- 
pletely exhausted, “ Dolly, I wish you would hand me the 
sperits of camphire.” 

It should already have been stated, that the suspected mem- 
bers of the canine tribe, having each undergone a prescribed 
ordeal, were honorably acquitted, except that notable guar- 
dian that “was as cross a dog to other dogs as any dog could be 
when other dogs disturbed his nightly watch.” 


216 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


THE FOOLISH MARRIAGE. 


Tue first of November came round; the long dismal rains of 
the autumn were over; along the brooks, and from their grassy 
beds on the hillsides, the flowers, pale pansies, and crimson flox, 
and blue-bells, were beaten down and gone; that lonesome 
time of fading and falling was passed; the cold north breeze had 
blown off the melancholy haze in which the blue basement of 
the skies had buried itself all through October, and the atmos- 
phere was clear and chill. 

Mr. Claverel’s barns were full of new hay, and golden bundles 
of wheat, and white sheaves of rye, and about the doors great 
spotted oxen, and sleek brown heifers, and frisky calves with 
sprouting horns, were treading knee deep in the fresh and fra- 
grant straw. It was a goodly sight—evidence of content and 
abundance. ‘The corn and the orchard fruits were also gathered, 
and a reign of smiling plenty blest all the toilers. — 

But within doors, though the hearth blazed brightly, it was 
quiet, very quiet, almost sad. Mr. Claverel sat in the house 
for the most part, reading the Bible or the newspapers; and 
though from the latter he sometimes read to Dolly an item of 
news, or a recipe for making a pie or a pudding—for she, unedu- 
cated and simple-minded woman, cared little for the theological 
disputations and political flourishes in which her husband took 
great interest—she usually kept silently about her work, mend- 
ing and making, or putting the house in order, or preparing 
dinner or supper, in her industrious and frugal way; and her 
step was not so light as it used to be, and she spoke less often 
and less hopefully of the future. She was learning the great 
lesson, the deceitfulness of earthly hopes, and that “ sorrow’s 


, aE 
CaN 
fast 


crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.” Her ill. 
starred boy had not fulfilled the prophecies in which her mater- 
nal heart once rejoiced; and no wonder she was sad, poor 
woman. 

David and Oliver, bringing dusty slates and mouldy school 
books out of the closets, in which they had been for nine 
months stored, had commenced, for three months, their studies 
in the district school, where Martha and Jane were kept the 
year round, save when a heavy storm of rain or snow prevented 
their going; for the school was a mile from home, and they 
had neither cloaks nor overshoes—not they. 

One cloudy and gusty day, when the crickets chirped to the 
rattle of the windows, Mr. Claverel drew shiveringly to the fire, 
saying, as he did so, “I am afraid, Dolly, I am going to have 
a spell of the ague, for the chills run over and over me, and I 
can’t seem to get warm, though I’ve got on two of my red flannel 
shirts to-day ;” and Mrs. Claverel said, as she gave him the cam- 
phor, and put a blanket over his shoulders, that she had felt all 
day as though something was going to happen—when a heavy 
stamping and a lighter sort of shuffling arrested their attention. 

But let me go back a little. Rumor for once had been 
rightly advised ; and after a little flirtation and a little youthful — 
sentiment, in which each fancied the other to be the one above 
all others with whom to find sympathy and love, Richard 
Claverel and Sally Bates had been pronounced “husband and 
wife.” A week or two of enchantment, a week or two of cool 
commonplace, and then came moody discontent, with interludes 
of ungenerous allusion, and then sharp words and outright 
quarrels, 

Richard had been deceived in Sally, and Sally had been 
deceived in Richard. The miracle of sweetness and softness 
and beauty was proven an idler and a gossip, that loved nothing 
so much as money, and the handsome and prospectively well- 
to-do doctor turned out the most thriftless and ill-tempered 
wretch in the world. Truth is, both were right and both were 
wrong, as is usual in such cases; they had followed a blind 
and hasty impulse, and bitter reflection came after, with a 
long train of evils that would have been pointed out in advance, 

10 


THE FOOLISH MARRIAGE. 217 


218 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


if they could then have listened to them. The young woman 
had thought that Mr. Claverel, whom every body called a 
rich man, would provide the means of living till the Doctor 
should acquire his profession, but in this she was mistaken. 
True, the land of Mr. Claverel was worth a good deal of 
money, but the interest it yielded was a bare living, and this at 
the price of hard work. He had never more than five dollars 
in his pocket, for, as Mrs. Claverel said, he was a good provi- 
der, and the sugar and the coffee and the thousand other little 
things demanded every day, drew out almost all the funds 
which the sale of a steer- or a colt, now and then, or a load of 
hay, or a few bushels of oats, brought in. Besides, David and 
Oliver, who were steady and industrious, must have new coats 
and boots every few days, as Mr. Claverel expressed it, with a 
trifle occasionally for their own private uses; and Martha and 
Jane, too, must have new bonnets and dresses, for Mrs. Claverel 
wanted them to look a little like other folks, and she was sure 
Deacon White’s daughters had two dresses to their one; so it 
was no wonder, in view of the income and the demand, that 
Mr. Claverel was always a little behindhand. 

He was not, however, much disposed, even if he had possessed 
the means, to assist Richard any farther. He had, he said, 
given him his time these five years, besides boarding and cloth- 
ing him; then, too, he had given him a horse, and money, twice 
as much and twice as often as he had the other children; so it 
was no marvel, especially in view of the farther offence Richard 
had given, by marrying without his advice or consent, one 
against whom he had violent prejudices, that he closed the doors 
of his heart against him. In vain Mrs. Claverel urged that he 
had never seen nor spoken with the young bride; that she might 
be a pattern of perfection, and help Richard get along in the 
world, instead of being any detriment, if she only had a little ad- 
vice and encouragement. Mr. Claverel only said he didn’t 
want to see her; he knew the family to be illiterate and vul- 
gar; he didn’t suppose Joe Bates knew John Calvin from the 
President of the United States; and, ’t was likely, the daughter 
knew less—that she was a silly, ill-bred gad-about, whom he 
should assist by teaching her to help herself. 


THE FOOLISH MARRIAGE. 219 


In getting a wife, Richard had thought little of how she was 
to be supported; that he should be married was a fixed fact, 
but the unpleasant necessities that would follow, he kept in the 
dim distance ; and, further than that, he could sell his Bucepha- 
lus, and so manage to live for a while, at any rate. This had 
been done, and this gusty day I spoke of came after the last 
penny had been spent. 

Since his marriage, Richard had professed to be still pursuing 
his studies, sitting for the most part with his feet on the window 
sill or the table, in the little dusty office of Dr. Hilton; but some- 
times varying the monotony by selling a box of pills or a phial 
of paregoric, and sometimes by making a professional call with 
his teacher in cases of croupy children, or slight burns or fevers. 

Sometimes his meals were taken at his wife’s father’s, some- 
times in his mother’s pantry, and sometimes at the hotel, where 
they were never paid for. Sally still remained at home, be- 
cause Richard could in no way provide for her, in fact, but 
“because mother could not think of parting with her,” as she 
said. Her white shoes were quite worn out, and her white veil 
considerably soiled. Her father had once or twice renewed her 
dresses, and began to think it was time she should look to her 
husband. For several days he had not been to see her—why, 
she neither thought nor cared much, only that she wanted 
shoes, and knew she must present her claims. She could 
scarcely step out of doors any more—a state of things she was 
not at all accustomed to. And yet the doctor came not. What 
must she do? “Why, go at once and ask your husband,” said 
her mother; “it is time he should begin to provide.” So 
thought Sally, as well she might; and so, in her white slippers, 
down at the heel and out at the toe, and with the wind blowing 
her skirts in no very graceful fashion, she set out. 

On arrival at the office, she found Dr. Claverel slipshod, and 
in a threadbare and greasy coat, sitting with his hat drawn over 
his eyes close by a red hot stove, unbosoming his sorrows te 
the hostler of the hotel—a negro boy, of fourteen years of age. 
The acquaintance had begun in the Doctor’s more prosperous 
days, when the lad had been employed as a groom for Buce- 
phalus ; and though those days were gone, they still occasion- 


220 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


ally met in the bar-room, or about the stables, (Richard was 
fond of horses,) on terms of social equality. The extreme heat 
of the stove had caused the door to be opened, so that Sally en- 
tered without interrupting the conversation. 

“Why doesn’t you run away from her? J would, if I had 
such a wife,” she heard the boy say. 

“Where in Heaven’s name shall I run to?” replied the Doc- 
tor, balancing a bottle of castor oil on two fingers. “JT was a 
fool—I’ve_ been a fool all my life!” 

Sally, who had some vague idea that the conversation might 
refer to her, though she was by no means certain, exclaimed, in 
no very mild tone, “Iam glad you have found it out—every- 
body else has known it a long time.” 

“ Found out what?” said Richard, without evincing any sur- 
prise. 

“ Why, that you are a fool. You are not fit to have a wife 
—that’s what you are not fit for.” 

“T only wish you had found it out a little sooner,” said 
Richard. 

“J wish so as much as you can,” replied Sally; “I never saw 
the time before when I hadn’t a pair of shoes to put on my feet 
—just look at this ;” and she presented her shoes conspicuously 
to view. Richard said nothing, and she continued,—* Do you 
expect me to go barefoot, or do you wish me to take in wash- 
ing ?” 

“ Just as you please; your mother is a good washerwoman, 
and might easily initiate you in the mysteries of her profession, 
I should think.” ; 

“That is a pretty way to talk to your own wife. [Iam sure 
I have tried to do the best I could—lI wish I was dead, where I 
wouldn’t trouble you any more,” and the young wife began 
to ery. Richard was sorry he had spoken in this way; he had 
some conscience; nor had the young woman yet lost all her 
power. So, after sitting in uneasy silence for a while, he said, 
“IT don’t know what to do, Sally, more than you do; I have no 
money, and no means of getting any.” ‘ 

Sally made no answer, and he continued, “Can you sug- 
gest anything ?” 


THE FOOLISH MARRIAGE. 221 


Upon which she sobbed out, pausing at every word, “ They 
don’t want us at home any more, lam sure; and if we could 
only get a little house somewhere, and live by ourselves, I 
should be so glad.” 

“It’s no use talking about a house to a man that can’t get 
shoes !” 

“Suppose, then, we go to your father’s for a while 2?” 

“What for—to be turned out of doors?” 

“No! we will not be turned out. I can help your mother, 
and you, too, can earn your board, beside studying as much as 
you do now; and when they get tired of us, your father can 
help us, as he ought to, and we can begin to live by ourselves. 
Something may happen to our advantage—who knows ?” 

Richard thought all this reasonable, but felt a terrible hesi- 
tancy about carrying it out. If his father were only from home 
—but to present himself before him, and, worse still, his wife, 
was what he could not summon courage to do. However, he 
saw no alternative, and was reluctantly dragged into obedience 
to the suggestion. A dejected, pitiful sort of appearance they 
made: Richard in shabby black gentility, and Sally in the 
faded bridal gear—a rose-tinted silk, and the remnant of white 
satin slippers. 

Very glad was Mrs. Bates to see them set out, for she was 
tired of “slaving for such a great family ;” and over and again 
she advised the young people to make themselves very useful— 
that it might be to their advantage, &c. 

Poor Richard—he felt very much like a/despised outcast, go- 
ing back to the home whence he had been rightfully ejected, for 
charity. In vain he tried to persuade himself that it was fate, 
that all struggles were useless, and that he might as well sub- 
mit with a martyr’s resignation. It would not do; humility 
and pride and discontent and shame were warring in his bosom ; 
malignant and evil thoughts were in his heart. 

On the way they met a poor boy whose mother was sick ; he 
was miserably clad, looked dejected, and wore his arm in a 
sling; he hesitated, looked timidly and inquiringly at Richard, 
who at first seemed not to notice him, and then, pausing, said, 


222 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


abruptly, “ What do you want of me? I can’t do anything for 
you!” 

“Ts Dr. Hilton at home ?” said the boy. 

“No; and if he were, he could not do your mother any 
good. You had best go back as fast as you can, for most likely 
she will be dead before you get home.” 

The child was almost crying, as he said—“ Mother wanted 
me to go more for myself than for her—you see how I have 
hurt myself!” and he presented his hand. 

Richard loosened the bandage, and, examining it for a mo- 
ment, said, “It will have to be amputated before two days, 
and then you will never be good for anything. You had better 
be dead ; a poor orphan with one hand: why, you will starve to 
death.” 

The boy cried outright at this; for, though he didn’t know 
what amputated meant, he had a vague idea that it was some- 
thing fearful, and he knew what starving to death was. 

Richard continued: ‘“‘ What business had you to hurt your 
hand in this way 2? I suppose you were doing some mischief, 
something for which you ought to be sent to the State’s prison 
for life.” 

“No, I was doing no harm,” said the boy, “ only trying to 
make a fire; but the log was too big for me; and when I had 
got one end on the door-step, the other slipped off on to my 
hand, and crushed it as you see.” 

“Well,” said Richard, “I knew it was something you had no 
right to do. Poor folks ought not to have fires; they ought to 
freeze to death, don’t you know that, boy ?” 

“The Doctor is only in fun, little boy,” said Sally, kindly, 
for she was a woman; “your mother will get well, and your 
hand, too; and you ought not to freeze to death, any more than 
other folks; but you had best go on, and leave word for Doc- 
tor Hilton to call at your mother’s as soon as he comes home ” 
—advice which the little fellow, half-smiling and half-sobbing, 
obeyed. 

“Why did you talk so to that poor little boy?” asked Mrs, 
Claverel, as they walked on. 

‘“* Because,” said Richard, “ my heart is full of bitterness, and 


? 


THE FOOLISH MARRIAGE. 223 


it must overflow somewhere ; beside, it is no worse to speak 
than to think, and I can’t help my thoughts—may be you can 
do better.” 

He was interrupted by a footstep. An old man walking as 
hurriedly as his age and feebleness would permit, passed them, 
leaning on a thorny staff. With that freedom which is customary 
in some parts of the country, he spoke to the young people. 
There was something gracious in his aspect, as though the way 
he had come was beset with pitfalls, and youth needed warning 
as well as encouragement. An indescribable sneer came over 
the countenance of Richard, as he said, “If I were you, old 
gray-headed man, I would cease to play such tricks; but per- 
haps tis your vocation, and why should I meddle with you, so 
near the grave? hobble on, hobble on, sir—how can your fee- 
ble sinews master fate? I am young—in the vigor of man- 
hood, they tell me, and yet no match for the demon.” The 
old man, probably thinking the youth demented, looked pity- 
ingly on him a moment, and then went forward in silence. 

The remainder of the walk was accomplished without any in- 
terchange of words. Arrived at the door, Richard tried to act 
like a consciously welcome guest, but his perturbation betrayed 
itself; and as for Sally, her heart misgave her when she met 
the cold, unsmiling greeting of her father-in-law, nor could the 
kind efforts of Mrs. Claverel to make all smooth, dispel the sor- 
rowful homesick feeling that came over her. Each tried to act 
as it was wished to feel, but the constraint would not be thawed 
away, and the first afternoon passed uncomfortably enough. 
Mr. Claverel read, or affected to read; the women kept up 
some sort of talk, but it was on the surface; their ungenial na- 
tures would not sympathize, and Richard, finding some sort of 
relief in employment, and willing to escape from his father’s 
presence, set about cutting wood—an employment never before 
tasteful to him; and it was not till tea time that he presented 
himself, tired and chilled with the unusual exposure. 

“The wind blows like snow,” said Mr. Claverel, going to the 
window. “You had best get tea a little earlier than common, 
Dolly, or the Doctor and his lady will have a dark walk home.” 

This was purposely said to humiliate them, for he had no 


224 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


idea that they intended to go home ; nor did they, that day, 
nor the next, nor the next; and it may readily be imagined that 
affairs beginning so ill did not end well. 

So far from being any help, the young people were a contin- 
ual source of discomfort and trouble. Mrs. Claverel soon 
grew tired of trying to make matters pleasant, since all her 
efforts were unavailing; and so they went from bad to worse. 
At last they became very weary of each other, both the young 
people and the old; and one morning, after some unusual dis- 
satisfaction, Sally put on her white bonnet, and went to her 
mother. 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR'S WAY IN THE WORLD. . 225 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR'S WAY:IN THE 
WORLD. 


For a time Sally continued to reside with her mother, and 
Richard with his, without seeing each other, except by an oc- 
casional interchange of calls. This of course gave rise to much 
scandal in the neighborhood, which of all things Mrs. Claverel 
most dreaded. Mean time the birth of a daughter gave some 
sort of momentary strength to the feeble tie existing between 
the young husband and wife. 

“ Don’t you think, Sammy,” said Mrs. Claverel, one morn- 
ing, as she took up one of his red flannel shirts to mend, “ don’t 
you think the old speckled cow is getting a little past her 
prime 2?” 

It is a much easier thing to fall in with the observation of 
another, when we are not particularly interested, than to express 
a different opinion, and, without looking up, Mr. Claverel said, 
simply, “I don’t know but she is.” 

After a few minutes of silence, Mrs. Claverel continued, 
pursuance of some train of thought, “ Did you see how ioe 
black mare acted this morning ?” 

Mr. Claverel was deeply engaged in one of Van Buren’s 
_ Messages, and made no reply ; so the good woman went on, 
“It seems to me I never saw her act so bad before. It was as 
much as David could do to get her started ; and when she did 
go at last, Tom had the whole of the load to pull. It seems to 
me I would sell her along pretty soon, if I saw a good opportu- 
nity. Don’t you think so?” 

“What is it?” said Mr. Claverel, just beginning to under- 
stand that his wife was talking to him. Then, seeing her occu- 

1o* 


226 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


pation, he added, “I wish, Dolly, while you are about it, you 
would just line those sleeves through, from the elbow to the 
shoulder. I feel a little of the rheumatis this morning.” 

Of course, Mrs. Claverel thought it would be a good plan ; 
but, before it was accomplished, she managed to make her 
meaning perfectly understood. f 

“It’s no use,” said Mr, Claverel, at first; “the speckled cow 
is worth twice what she will bring; and as for the mare, I 
could not get half the vally of her, Besides, I could not carry 
on the farm without her.” 

“Why, Sammy, I don’t see how she is worth more to you 
than to any one else ; and Oliver wants to break his colt now, 
and then I expect you will have no use for the mare at all.” 

“Well, if I could sell them, I don’t particularly need the 
money. I can sell oats and hay enough to pay my taxes, and 
I don’t like to part with my critters.” 

“I think may be, if Richard had a little start, enough to go 
to housekeeping with, he and Sally would try to get along. If 
they were in their own house, and had some encouragement to 
do, perhaps they might—who knows? Sally has a bed and 
bureau, and a half dozen chairs ; and if we can give thema little 
more, they will manage nicely. It seems a pity, when they 
are disposed to do as well as they can, that we should offer 
them no countenance.” 

Mr. Claverel said nothing. He seemed in a troubled study. 

“The baby grows finely,” continued Mrs. Claverel, talking 
rather for Mr. Claverel than to him. “I was in there yesterday 
for the first time. I didn’t much want to go there, but I was 
coming by, and Mrs. Bates, she was out in the yard, and so in- 
sisted on my going in just a minute, that I couldn’t well get off. 
You know it couldn’t take me but just a minute, Sammy, and I 
thought if it would do them any good, why, it would not do me 
any harm, and so I stopped just a little bit.” 

There was a long pause after this apologetic speech, which, 
the husband not seeming disposed to interrupt it, gave the good 
wife an uncomfortable sensation. However, she. rallied pre- 
sently ; and after slipping her hand under the patch, and say- 
ing, “Isn’t that thick and warm 2” she said, “They want you to 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR’S WAY IN THE WORLD. 227 


come, and | told them I’d tell you, but you had so much to do, 
I didn’t much expect you’d go, and that you were no hand to go 
to any place. They talk of calling the baby Dolly—an old 
fashioned sort of name; | should not think they would like it.” 

“ Better call it Folly,” said Mr. Claverel, at which the wife 
laughed, and said she thought so too, though she felt no inclina- 
tion whatever to laugh, but wished in some way to put her hus- 
band in good humor, which in some sort she did, though for the 
time he seemed much more interested in the message than in 
anything which his wife said. A week or two after this conver- 
sation, Mr. Claverel one morning took a pair of old horse-shoes 
in one hand, and tying a rope about the neck of Oliver’s colt, 
set out for Clovernook. He walked slowly, for the refractory 
colt—a rough-haired, long-legged, long-tailed, sorrel animal, that 
had not yet attained his best development—pulled backward, to 
the extent of his halter and neck together. 

To reach the blacksmith’s, he passed the house of Mr. Bates; 
and though he did not turn his head in that direction, he saw at 
the window his daughter-in-law, with her baby in her arms. 
She saw him, and with her heart softened toward everybody, 
with a strange, new feeling, she called him to come in, just a 
moment, and see little Dolly. He hesitated a moment, then 
tied the colt to the gate-post, and walked straight into the house. 
A moment more, and his grandchild was in his arms. 

A. week or two more, and the sorrel colt, which Oliver called 
Democrat, (he was a stout politician, after the order of his 
father,) was soberly at work by the side of Tom, and the black 
mare and the speckled cow were no longer among the chattels 
of Mr. Claverel; and between the old homestead and the village, 
Richard had taken up his abode. The house he occupied was a 
wooden building, of small size and pretensions; nevertheless, 
it had an air of decency and comfort about it. The carpet was 
very pretty, as Mrs. Bates thought, the curtains tasteful, and the 
other furniture good and useful. The front of the house near 
the door was garnished with the sign of “ Dr. Claverel,” and 
the stable, on the back of the lot, was filled with hay and corn 
for Richard’s new pony. He intended to commence practice at 
once. It was no use, he thought, to study any longer ; he knew 


228 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


about as much as Dr. Hilton, though he hadn’t attended lec- 
tures, and hadn’t a regular diploma, and it was not so easy to 
make other people believe it. However, baskets of provision, 
enough for the consumption of a month, were provided by Mrs. 
Claverel and Mrs. Bates, and the young people began to make 
their own way in the world. 

Richard rocked the cradle while Sally cooked the dinner, 
and Sally rocked while Richard saddled his pony and rode 
about the neighborhood, as though professionally engaged. 
Thus matters went on for a time, but at the end a month, Rich- 
ard’s riding was still all make-believe. The hay was gone from 
the stable, the flour and meat from the larder, the wood re- 
quired to be replenished, and fear and anxiety began to usurp 
the place of hope and satisfaction, 

Daily Richard went backward and forward between his 
father’s and his own home, bearing a basket of apples or pota- 
toes, and daily Martha and Jane addressed him as Dr. Clave- 
rel, and inquired, with mock sincerity, after the health of his 
patients. ‘“ How much do you want?” they would ask some- 
times—‘‘ a dollar’s worth, or less? we don’t do business on the 
credit system.” Mrs. Claverel would say, “ Come, come!” by 
way of reproof, while Richard remained silent from mortifi- 
' cation. 

The spring brightened into summer, and the half-made gar- 
den was overgrown with weeds, while in-doors a cross baby 
cried in the cradle, and the mother, languid and weary of wait- 
ing for the better time, grew more and more dissatisfied, neg- 
lecting the sources of comfort she had, because she had not more. 

One morning, after a restless night with the fretful child, she 
arose, more languid and disquieted than usual. There was no 
fire to prepare breakfast, and no breakfast to prepare; dull, 
leaden clouds hung over all the sky; no breath of air stirred 
the leaves, among which the spiders were lazily spinning ; the 
birds twittered feebly and faintly, but there was no joyous out- 
burst of song. Presently the thunder growled in the far dis- 
tance, and rumbled heavily up the sky; the day was going to 
be stormy. 

Once or twice Sally called her husband to arise, and, if pos- 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR’S WAY IN THE WORLD. 229 


sible, get some wood for a fire before the rain set in; but he 
dozed on, paying no heed to her remarks or advice; and ap- 
proaching near where the fire should be, she rocked her baby 
to and fro, in a wretched and sullen mood, looking out on the 
storm. ‘There was no food, nor fire, nor money in the house. 
Neither was there any interchange of kind words, or hopes, or 
wishes, to keep alive in their hearts the love that was fast dying 
out. At last the noon was come; it grew lighter, and the rain 
nearly ceased. 

The poor woman could restrain her sorrow and her reproaches 
no longer, and once more turning to Richard, asked him if he 
intended to leave her to starve to death. 

“ What would you have me do,” he said: “go out in this 
storm and ask charity? I have no heart and no hope—nothing 
but a discontented and reproachful wife, 


‘ Would that I were dead before thee!’ ”’ 


Tears followed on her part; then bitterer reproaches ; then 
harsh words from each to each; and then sullen silence and 
dogged resolves. Toward sunset, with her baby in her arms, 
and tears in her eyes, Sally set out in the rain for home, while 
Richard remained in the desolate and deserted house—wretched, 
very wretched. 

The sun went down; the rain fell on and on; without and 
within, all was dark, and the heart of Richard was darkest of 
all. He was hungry, though he scarcely felt that; but weary 
of himself and of the world, the hours dragged slowly by. All 
day he sat perfectly still, with his arms folded across his bosom, 
and his eyes bent on the ground. At last he arose, pacing rest- 
lessly from side to side of the little room, beginning a train of 
reflection sometimes with, “I might do better if I would,” but 
invariably ending with, “I would do better if I could.” Vio- 
lent feelings of joy or pain must exhaust themselves at last, and 
the tumult in the bosom of the young man at length gave way 
to the settled calmness of despair. After a search of some 
minutes, he succeeded in finding the remnant of a tallow candle, 
by the light of which he read the miserable conclusion of the 
sorrowful story of Chatterton ; but he gathered no courage from 


230 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the fact that the day after his suicide “there came a man in 
the city inquiring for him.” He only said it was better that he 
should die than live. An evil sign was in his house of life, 
which only the shadow of the grave could sweep away ; and to 
die was to give the echo of his name to the world. So, the 
long night, in darkness and silence, he mused. 

The next morning, haggard and worn and hungry, he re- 
turned to his father’s house, and his mother listened patiently 
and lovingly to the old story: his wife had cruelly deserted 
him, depriving him of the solace of his child; in fact, she had 
been unkind and unprovident from the first; and had she re- 
mained, her conduct might ultimately have broken his heart. 
So wretched and helpless and hopeless he looked, that even his 
father was softened, and forbore to reproach, if he did not soothe 
and encourage. He was resolved to give up his profession, for 
he had neither the tact nor the talent for its prosecution ; he 
would come back home, and assist his brothers in the cultiva- 
tion of the farm. Agreeably to this resolve, Democrat and 
Tom were harnessed to the market-wagon, and the goods be- 
longing to the husband were separated and removed from those 
belonging to the wife. The sign was taken down, and though 
Richard was careful to deposit it where it would neither be 
seen by himself nor any one else, as he thought, Martha and 
Jane, in some of those mysterious searches of which children 
are so fond, would sometimes bring it to light, and, tacking it 
to the door of his room, hide in some neighboring nook to 
watch his coming, and laugh over his surprise and mortification. 

After a few days of pretty energetic endeavor to be useful, 
Richard began to relapse to his former apathy and indifference. 
Sometimes he would sit in his chamber and read his old medi- 
cal books, sometimes he mounted his pony and rode about the 
neighborhood, no one knew for what, nor do I think he knew 
himself. 

Meantime, rumor became current that Mr. Bates was about 
to sell out and move to town—a rumor which had confirmation 
in the bills posted in front of the Clovernook Hotel, and the 
principal grocery store, as also on the graveyard fence, and the 
gate-posts of Mr. Claverel, at one extremity of the village, and 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR’S WAY IN THE WORLD. 281 


of Deacon Whitfield, about a mile away, stating, in large print- 
ed letters, that there “ would be sold at public vendue, on the 
first of August, at the house of Mr. Bates, all the following 
property, viz., three milch cows, one patent churn, with a lot of 
dairy ware and family crockery ; two feather beds, picked from 
Mr. Bates’s own geese, and warranted prime; one bureau, one 
breakfast table, and half a dozen chairs. Also, two draught- 
horses, one fanning mill, one plough, with a great variety of 
farming and household utensils, too numerous to mention.” 
Mrs. Bates had asserted, as it was reported, that she could 
not live in the same neighborhood with the Claverels. So, in 
course of time, fanning mill and feather beds, milch cows and 
breakfast table, were disposed of, and Mr. Bates and family 
moved to the city, and opened a boarding-house for tailors, 
milliners, and errand-boys—Sally chiefly doing the honors, and 
her mother the work. The children were thus deprived of the 
fresh air, and free, healthful exercise, to which they had been 
accustomed; their simple and comfortable clothing was aban- 
doned for something like other children’s, more expensive than 
they could afford, and more fashionable than durable or agreeable. 
Consequently, they became, as their mother thought, very much 
improved ; that is, they had, in place of full, dimpled cheeks, 
and rosy arms, and flowing hair, a paler and more delicate 
complexion, and broad, white pantalettes, and long braids hang- 
ing down their backs, liberally ornamented at the ends with 
very bright ribbons. As for the boys, I can’t describe the but- 
tons, and tassels, and shining belts, that set them off; but it 
was all over-strained, and not precisely the right thing; nor 
could they learn to feel as much at ease as in their loose trow- 
sers in the hay-field. The city air and the neglectful mother 
didn’t agree with the baby, and on the cushion of the rocking- 
chair she lay, fretting by the hour, or falling over the shoulder 
of a nurse-girl, not old enough nor strong enough to support 
her; or was carried from place to place, with her skirts of 
two yards in length trailing to the ground. The name of Dolly 
was abandoned or metamorphosed to Dora. Poor little baby, 
its name was never written, even on its tombstone; and what 
availed the change, for the summer was not gone till its languid 


232 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


arms were folded and its feet straightened for the grave. A 
few natural tears, a vacuum for some days, and then the white 
lace that edged its long dresses served to set off the mourning 
of the young mother. Peace to the unknown little child, fallen 
asleep in innocency, to wake in the bosom of the Good Shep- 
herd. It had no need of torture to be made pure. The fire- 
crown, and the worm that never dies, are not for those over 
whom sounds ever the sweet music, “Suffer them to come 
unto me, and forbid them not.” Away under the sun-set 
clouds, neglected and sunken, is the grave which the ill-starred 
father never saw, and about which the hands of the mother 
planted no flowers : 

I marvel, sometimes, when I see mothers who will not be 
comforted, mourning for the deaths of their children. They 
forget that the beauty of immortal youth is theirs; they forget 
the fullness of sorrow that is in the world; the moaning that 
runs through the universe, since the downward beating of the 
starry wings of Lucifer brought the echoes from below. 

Sooner or later we grow weary, and covet for our bleeding 
feet and broken hearts the comfort of the grave ; for life has no 
good unmixed with evil. The laurel twines itself only about 
haggard and aching brows; under the flame that streams across 
the centuries lie the gray ashes of all dearest hopes; the 
great waves of despair beat ever against the citadel of joy, 
until Wwe are glad to fold the darkness about us, and go down to 
the narrow house, there, at least, to rest. No troubling dream 
disturbs the pillow, no necessity to labor or to wait, calls us 
away from the quiet, to front, with fainting and failing powers, 
the terrors of adverse destiny. The morning goes, and comes 
again, and again, but visits our eyelids with no unwelcome 
light. The sobbing rains of the spring-time beautify with flow- 
ers the covering that is over us, the dry leaves of autumn drop 
down, and the white snows of winter settle over the grave. 
mound like the sheet over the newly dead; but to the pale 
sleepers it is all the same, for there is no work, nor device, nor 
wisdom, nor knowledge, in the grave. For royale many that 
I have Lied have gone from me to return back no more. The 
golden curls of childhood, the dark, heavy tresses of mature 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR’S WAY IN THE WORLD. 233 


life, and the thin, silvery locks of old age, have been hidden 
from my eyes by the shroud-folds ; but among them all there 
is not one that I would summon ‘to take up again the burden of 
life. Were they here, my weakness might fasten itself upon 
their strength, and my lagging footsteps hold them back from 
the aims of ambition, the reward of endeavor. 


234 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


CONTRASTED VISITOBS. 


Saturpay night! Who has not rejoiced when the week’s 
affairs were wound up, even though they may have been attended 
with no unusual sorrow or solicitude. The weight of care is 
lightened for a moment, and we breathe freely ; there is then 
less looking before and after, less sighing for what is not, than 
at other times. In the city, the close of the week and the 
approach of the Sabbath are more manifestly apprehended, 
perhaps; but in the country, they are felt. The oxen are un- 
yoked and left to graze over the hills for a day ; the plough, or 
the work, of whatever sort it may be, stands still; a hush, 
unbroken by the woodman’s axe or the laborer’s song, spreads 
itself over all; and the solemn ringing of the village bell calls 
every one to come up and worship. There is no music of 
chimes, there are no cross-crowned towers, no gorgeous altars, 
no elaborate rituals, nor paid choirs, to fill long, dark aisles 
with unnatural trills— 


‘As if God’s ear would bend with childish favor 
To the poor flattery of the organ keys.” 


The very birds seem to sing less jocundly, and their songs 
sound through the woods like anthems; and the winds, the 
priesthood of the air, in prophetic tones, admonish the soul, till 
the sun goes down in purple fire, and over the sky’s blue bor- 
der the stars come up white and cold. 

Sometimes, in country places, the Sabbath is made a time 
for visiting; nor is it thus profaned, for it is generally among 
people whose occupations require all their attention through 
the week, and who, after quietly enjoying the hospitality of 


CONTRASTED VISITORS. 235 


some dear friend or brother, partake with him also a spiritual 
feast in the house of God. ‘There is no ostentatious display, no 
noise or bustle necessary for the entertainment, but the visitors 
lend their aid in the performance of some labor of love, and so, 
during their stay, make less trouble than they prevent. The 
women folks, who of course sleep in the spare bed, “ dainty 
and lavendered,” spread it smoothly and get the whole cham- 
ber in order before they descend, and make themselves further 
useful, often, in laying the cloth and assisting about breakfast, 
which is easily accomplished with the asking of an occasional 
question; such as, whether to use the white-handled knives and 
forks or the horn ones, the plain china or the gilt, the tin or the 
britannia coffee-pot; in all of which cases the visitor knows 
well enough that the white-handled knives and forks, and the 
gilt china, and the britannia coffee-pot, are to be used. Mean- 
while, the men-folks inspect cribs and sheds and barn, pro- 
posing improvements for themselves from what they see, or 
suggesting improvements for their neighbor, while they give 
the horses their oats, or carry the hay to the sheep, or milk a 
cow, “just because they would rather do it than not ””—neither 
offering hindrance, nor disorganizing the usual course of things. 
If it be known that Uncle John’s or Aunt Mary’s family, or 
any other folks, are coming, the preparations are all made on 
Saturday. At such times, wo to the chickens that have saucy 
habits of coming into the house. With all diligence the chil- 
dren search through hay-mows and straw-heaps, and sometimes 
make exploring expeditions into patches of weeds, for new 
hen’s nests; scrubbing*and dusting are done with unusual care ; 
a pound-cake and a pudding are baked; and toward sunset all 
the family appear in their holiday gear, awaiting with smiling 
countenances the crowning event, the arrival of ‘‘ the company.” 
Such an event was about to occur at Mr. Claverel’s. The 
week’s work was finished; David and Oliver were breaking 
their colts, Democrat and Reuben, into the mysteries of some 
fantastic tricks; Mr. Claverel was reading some political essay 
in the Republican, while Dolly crimped the border of her cap 
with Richard’s penknife; and Martha and Jane, shivering 
though they were, sat close at the front gate, eager to catch the 


236 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


first glimpse of Uncle Peter’s team. Richard, utterly indif- 
ferent, or affecting to be so, sat in his room, seesawing on a 
violin; and yet the coming of Uncle Peter was to be the begin 
ning of a new era in his life. 

“Oh, mother, mother, look quick and see if’ this is not them, 
just coming over the hill,” said both the girls at once. Mrs. 
Claverel arose and looked from the window, saying, as she did 
so, “‘ Peter has a new horse on the near side, if it is him ; but, 
Sammy, hadn’t you best go out and open the gate, at any 
rate ?” 

“Call Richard to go,” he answered; but the children ran out 
again, saying they could do it, for they thought that would 
make it uncle Peter; and Mrs, Claverel, saying she guessed 
they could do itjust as well as anybody, left Richard to the en- 
joyment of his violin. Anxiously, and almost tremblingly, the 
children gazed; presently, the white cover and the little green 
wagon were in full sight, and there, side by side, sat Uncle 
Peter and Aunt Jane. Briskly the journey was concluded, 
and as, having smiled and nodded to the children, they trot- 
ted down the gravel walk, the rattling of the wheels an- 
nounced to all that they were come. Mrs. Claverel, in her 
newly crimped cap and smoothly ironed dress, and with one 
hand in the sock she was mending—for she was never idle— 
came forth to give her welcome, attended by “ Sammy,” with 
the open Republican in one band, and a Windsor chair in the 
other, which he proffered, by way of a step. What a joyous 
shaking of hands there was, how many kind inquiries about all 
at home, from the children to Billy, the* hired man—and even 
the old house-dog was not forgotten. Then came the unpack- 
ing of a variety of little presents, in packages, jars, and baskets 
—for aunt Jane never came empty-handed—she always had 
something that she knew Dolly would like so well! some of 
her currant jelly, or dried pears, so nice in case of sickness, or 
a fresh-baked loaf-cake, which she thought the children might 
like because Aunt Jane made it, and not but that Dolly could 
make a great deal better. 

Aunt Jane was a good woman; kind deeds and words flowed 
from her heart as spontaneously as water’ from its fountain. 


CONTRASTED VISITORS. 237 


She knew nothing of the arts and blandishments of cultivated 
life; nothing of its heartless and specious deceptions; but a dis- 
position to please is better than conformity to rules, and every- 
body was happy in Aunt Jane’s society. She was not my Aunt 
Jane, any more than Uncle Dale was my Uncle Dale, nor so 
much indeed; I wish she was, for she is still living, and well 
stricken in years she must be, too, for, as I remember her she 
was forty, I suppose—and that is a long time ago. In the 
shadow of the maple, where Uncle Peter often rested from his 
labors, he is now taking his last rest. He was many years 
older than his wife; even at the bridal, his hair was white; but 
her flirtations gave him little annoyance, as 


. 


“ Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, 
He kept the even tenor of his way ;” 


and when the end came, he was resigned and happy. 

“Keep the old homestead, Jenny,” he said, “and Billy to 
tend the farm: he knows all my ways of doing. I don’t want 
any new-fangled ploughs or harrows brought into use. Go and 
visit Sammy’s folks once in three months, just as though I were 
with you; and do not grieve, Jenny, but kiss me now, and let 
me go to sleep,” and, smoothing the gray hair from his fore- 
head, Jenny did kiss him, as fervently as twenty years before, 
and the smile that came over his features was never afterwards 
disturbed. But it is not with the sad end of the journey that I 
have to deal, nor much even with the living years, only as this : 
one visit influenced the destiny of Richard. | 

The sun was down, and the lamp lighted, and the table 
spread for supper. Democrat and Reuben, whose stalls were 
to be occupied by Uncle Peter’s horses, were turned out to race 
in the orchard, and the violin was mute. The rattling of the 
stage coach along the turnpike arrested their attention. There 
was a sudden pause, a sound of voices, then a driving forward 
again ; and presently there was a loud rap on the door, and, re- 
sponsive to Mr. Claverel’s distinct ‘Come in,” a fat little wo- 
man entered, whom, under drooping feathers and muffing furs, 
it was difficult to recognise as Mrs. Bates. Mr. Claverel re- 
ceived her with cold formality, Richard with blank surprise, 


238 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


and Mrs. Claverel with a strained and uncomfortable effort at 
nospitality. 

A little very urgent business had brought her, she said, as 
she accepted the invitation to “take off her things.” “You 
see,” she continued, seating herself by aunt Jane, “it was my — 
daughter that Richard Claverel here married. She made him 
a good wife, if ever a woman made a good wife. I don’t say 
this because I am her mother, and she is my daughter; because 
if I was not her mother, nor she my daughter, I could see that 
she was a good wife, just as well as I can see now that she was 
a good wife, and it was all from his own evil disposition that 
my daughter was forced to abanding his house. I haven’t the 
vanity to think my daughter an angel, but I do think an angel 
could not have lived with him, any more than my daughter 
could live with him; but an angel, seeing his evil disposition, 
would have had to abanding him, just as my daughter, seeing 
his evil disposition, had to abanding him.” There is no telling 
how much longer she would have gone on but for the interfer- 
ence of Mr. Claverel, who, after the exclamation, “A fool’s 
mouth hath no drought,” requested that whatever business she 
might have should be transacted with him. 

Richard had made his escape, followed by Uncle Peter, who 
preached him an excellent sermon from the text, “ Never give 
up.” At first, he said it was no use; he should always have 
bad luck; that if other folks could do better, he hoped they 
_ would—but that he couldn’t. Gradually,-however, he yielded 
by little and little, and began to take courage and hope. 

“T forgot,” said Mrs. Bates, addressing Mr. Claverel, “ that 
you are the governor. I suppose you would like to have me 
get down on my knees, and ask you if you would please to let 
me speak a word; but I can tell you, Sammy Claverel, it will 
not be the Widder Bates that gets on her knees to the like of 
you. No: the Widder Bates has a little too much spirit for 
to get down on her knees to you, Sammy Claverel, or the like 
of you, Sammy Claverel—the Widder Bates tells you that to 
your face, Sammy Claverel.” Yes, our old ens was @ 
widow now: poor Bates—when his little farm was: 
occupation was gone. Temptation met and overca 


. 


CONTRASTED VISITORS. 239 


* The strength and independence of the yeoman degenerated into 


the weakness and imbecility of the drunkard; and living awhile 
a pitiable wretch, he died an outcast from the love of his own 
wife and children. 

“ Can’t the business just be put off till we have taken a little 
bit of tea and eaten a mouthful or two of supper?” said Mrs, 
Claverel. 

But Mrs. Bates, who felt invested by her widowhood with a 


sort of dignity, and loved to make allusion to her lonely and 


unprotected state, replied that the Widder Bates would say 
what she had to say without any supper; that she was a lone 
body, but for all that, she wouldn’t be beholden to her foes! 

“Come and eat like a woman,” Mr. Claverel said; “ you’ve 
rid from town, and must be hungry. I don’t pretend to be 
your friend, but ’'m not your enemy; and now that you are 
in my house, you are welcome to eat, though I hope this may 
be your last visit.” 

Adjusting her black bonnet so as to show to good advantage 
the red artificial flowers in her cap, Mrs. Bates said she hoped 
it would be her last visit; that she had come to say something 
that would have been very much to Mr. Claverel’s advantage, 
and that she would rather be to the advantage of a black slave 
than to one’s disadvantage; but that if he was not a mind to 
have an advantage, when a lone widder had come to offer him 
an advantage, to her own disadvantage, she didn’t know as she 
was bound to force an advantage into his hands to her own dis- 
advantage. 

Mr. Claverel said if she had made such sacrifice on his ac- 
count, he was sorry; but that if she had anything to propose 
that would be to their mutual advantage, he was ready to 
hear it. 

“‘Maby you remember our black cow?” said Mrs. Bates, re- 
seating herself. 

“She got most of her living in my paster: so I have some 
reason to remember her.” 

‘“‘Maby you have other reasons ?” 

“ Only oe she was an ugly old critter, that one would not 


240 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


be likely to forget, and that she could let down the bars as well 
as 1” | 

“And you as well as she—so folks say, at any rate.” 

“What of that? Would I put your cow in my paster 2?” 

“Opinions differ—some says what you wouldn’t like to 
hear.” ‘ 

The angry glow came into Mr. Claverel’s face, as he said— 

“Speak plainly, and to the point; I don’t understand you.” 

“T did speak to the point—the Widder Bates isn’t afeard.” 

“Then say out what yuo have to say.” 

“ve said, as plain as words can say, that if a rich man had 
a spite to a poor man, he might turn the poor man’s cow into 
his own meader, and let her eat herself to death, just because 
he was a rich man that the law couldn’t touch, and had a spite 
to a poor man that the law could take up and hang if he said a 
word.” 

‘“‘ Ay, ay, I understand,” said Mr. Claverel, for her talk was 
too ludicrous to make him angry; “but if any one believed 
your insinuations, I don’t see that it would be much to my 
advantage.” , 

“Tf Iam a mind to tell it, it will be to your disadvantage ; 
and if I don’t tell it, it will be to your advantage; but do you 
suppose I am going to conceal it for nothing?” 

“Do as you please; but if you think I will pay you money 
to keep you from circulating falsehoods, you are mistaken. Is 
this the business you came to transact?” 

“T am a poor lone widder, and likely I don’t begin business 
the way business would be begun by a lawyer who learns his 
business out of books; but I am coming, as fast as I can, to 
more important business, for the black cow is dead now, poor 
old critter, and whether she hooked down the bars with her 
horns and got into your meader, or whether she got into your 
meader without hooking down the bars with her horns to get 
into your meader, makes no difference, now, seeing that she got 
into your meadow some way, and died on that account, taking 
as good as twenty dollars out of our pockets; but, as I said. 
that is neither here nor there.” : 

“What is?” asked Mr. Claverel. 


CONTRASTED VISITORS. 241 


“Why,” said Mrs. Bates, after some hesitation, “there is a 
young man boarding with me that is a lawyer, and knows about 
business, and how it ort to be done. He is from one of the 
cities east of the mountings, and he says that my daughter can 
get a divorce as easy as to turn her hand over, he says; and he 
says, he says there will be no difficulty at all in the case, he 
says.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Claverel; and Mrs. Bates continued: “And 
the Never says, he says that will be greatly to your disgrace, 
he says, to have the facts brought before the public, and he says, 
he says that if it was himself, he says, he would rather pay a 
thousand dollars, he says, than to have it brought before the 
public, he says; so I thought I would come and tell you what 
he said, he said, for he said he would rather pay a thousand 
dollars, he said, than to have the facts brought out, he said.” 

I will not dwell longer upon the important business which, 
by degrees, Mrs. Bates managed to explain. Enough that her 
plan failed, and that she left the house in high anger, saying, as 
she did so, that she was “convinced, now, that the black cow 
had some help about getting into the meader, and that the law- 
yer said, he said that there would be no difficulty in the way. 
of a divorce, he said.” 

Though Richard kept out of hearing of the conversation, he 
knew what it was, and was so humiliated that Aunt Jane should 
have heard it, that he would fain have crept out of the world; 
and though he had been once or twice called to supper, he de- 
layed to go, but remained on.the porch, apparently watching 
the clouds that were driving fleetly up the sky, now " obscuring 
the moon and stars, and now eave their broad, full light to 
stream on the world. 

A storm of sorrowful passion swept him away from the cold- 
ness and selfishness that were a part of his nature, and he 
longed for an opportunity of doing or saying soencthieg kind— 
something that should prove him not utterly lost. Carlo came 
close and rubbed his shaggy sides against him. “ Poor fellow !” 
said Richard, “ come in and I will give you some supper.” 

“The wind blows up like snow, don’t it ?” said Aunt Jane, 
addressing Richard, as though unconscious of his thoughts and 

11 


242 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


feelings. ‘“ But we are waiting supper for you, so never mind 
the clouds.” 

“Are you?” said Richard. “I didn’t know it was ready.” 
And taking Carlo by the collar, he followed Aunt Jane into the 
house, and making his supper of dry bread, which he held in 
one hand, he fed the dog with the other. The table was luxu- 
riously spread, but he had no appetite; and after going through 
the formula, he retired to his chamber, and drew out from its 
dusty closet, the old brown hair trunk, and after replacing a 
tack or two, and brushing it up to make it look as respectable 
as possible, he carefully wrapped in a “ Republican” the sign of 
Dr. Claverel, and placed it in the bottom—next came the 
violin, and then the various articles that made up his wardrobe 
—the trunk was locked, and seating himself by the window, he 
looked at the clouds and thought of the future all the long 
night, 


A NEW START. 243 


A NEW START. 


Tue hush of the Sabbath evening hung over the world.- 
Youths and maidens were crossing the green fields to the music 
of some rustic chapel, as the last light that burned about the 
‘sunset went out, and twilight opened her dusky wing, full of 
Stars. 

The rumbling of the wheels that went down the grass-grown 
lane, now dragging heavily through some deep rut, and now 
gliding smoothly along the level sward again, scarce disturbed 
the silence. The cattle that lay along by the fence, chewing 
the cud quietly, their sleek backs gray with frost, looked up 
with instinctive recognition, and the blue smoke curled upward 
from the old mossy and steep-roofed homestead, and the light 
_ (how far a little candle throws its beams !) shone forth its wel- 
come from the narrow and old-fashioned window. They were 
almost home—Uncle Peter and Aunt Jane; they had had a 
good visit, but still they were glad to get back. 

Poor Richard Claverel! there was no eye to look brighter 
for his coming; and as he sat on the little trunk that contained 
all his earthly effects, with his face turned away from his rela- 
tions, he was sad, for he was going forth to try once more if 
there were energy or manhood in him, though he secretly felt 
there was neither, for he was convinced, at least, that he was 
really ill-starred. 

“If it had been thus or thus,” he would say, “I might have 
been different ;” for he was vexed and maddened against every- 
thing for being what he was. Circumstances above his order- 
ing had shaped his destiny, as he thought, and so he sat, help- 
less and faithless, and let the current drift him as it would. 


244 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


What poor apologists we are, and how our judgments lean 
weakly in favor of ourselves. What is crime in another, in 
us is privilege, or chance; rules that are sacredly binding to 
others, we may trespass, if we will, for there is some sweet 
reservation of mercy for us that violated justice seals away 
from others; and so we sin, and draw after us a long train of 
evil and sorrow and remorse, even to the edges of the grave; 
and pity us, our Father! if we also dim the pure radiance of 
eternity. How hardly is the spirit taught, amid all the trials 
and weaknesses and temptations of our mortality, to shape its 
‘upward flight! 

Richard was sad; for a thousand times over we may say to 
ourselves, Can my weak hands wrest my destiny from the 
power of Omniscience? Can I warp circumstances to my will? 
Can I be other than I am? and so, yield to the sway of blind 
impulse; but a voice that condemns us—a still, small voice 
—is speaking all the while in our hearts, and making itself 
felt above our senseless declamation. Turn right about from 
the tempter, weak idler, and work—work diligently and earn- 
estly, doing what your hand finds to do with your might— 
and the wicked one will flee away. No mere intellectual re- 
solve, though never so well contrived, is strong enough, with- 
out work. If you come to a rock that you can neither blast 
nor break, nor dig under, nor climb over, turn aside, but work 
on, and by little and little you will get forward, and each step 
will give new strength for the next, till at last you will triumph, 
even though it be not till that “hoary flower that crowns ¢x 
treme old age” shall have blossomed on your brow. 

When the little journey was over, and the carriage stopped 
before the large red gate, Richard felt sadder than ever; the 
monotony of his thought must be broken in upon; he must 
encounter new faces, and make some show of gratitude for the 
kindness he should receive. All this was painful to him, and 
so, in place of talking with his cousins, Joseph and Hannah, 
and listening to Aunt Jane’s glowing account of Uncle Sammy 
Claverel’s folks, as she made the tea and changed the butter- 
plate from one side of the table to the other, and re-arranged 
the cups and saucers to the way she was used to have them, 


A NEW START. — 245 


he stole out of the house and sat down alone on an open piazza, 
though the air was very cold and comfortless. The cribs and 
barns and haystacks looked not as they looked at home; and 
the scythes and sickles and saws that garnished the side of the 
piazza were quite out of place, he thought. His father kept 
such like articles in a little room in the wagon house; and 
Uncle Peter seemed only half-civilized. From the end of the 
piazza, fronting the south, could be seen the little village of 
Medford, which lay some half mile away; clusters of white 
houses among the trees, gleaming lights, and one or two spires 
shooting up through the blue, were seen distinctly, for the 
moonlight streamed broadly over all. 

There was to be the scene of his new efforts. What would 
be the result? Interest that he had not felt for a long time 
began to attach itself to the place, and he wished it were morn- 
ing, that his work might begin, though he had nothing to do, 
except to nail the sign of “Dr. Claverel” to the gate post, 
for the public road was a quarter of a mile from Uncle Pe- 
ter’s house, and the sign must therefore be at the gate opening 
to the lane. To the northward, stood a thick wood, the edges 
of which were ragged with patches of clearing, and half decayed 
stumps of trees, blackened and charred; and now and then a 
tree with half its branches broken and crushed away by the fall 
of some neighboring fellow, caught the cold glimmer of the 
moonlight, and shivered to the passing of the wind. 

In the midst of one of these openings stood a small log cabin, 
from the little square window of which the light streamed very 
brightly. There seemed to be no buildings about it; and Rich- 
ard marvelled to himself as to the character of the people who 
lived there. A narrow strip of meadow and a part of the 
clearing only divided it from his view: some poor family of 
emigrants, he thought, or people who mend the roads. But as 
he looked and thought, the door opened, and a female figure was 
presented to his sight, which, imperfectly as he saw, belied his 
previous impression, Her arms were folded across her bosom, 
and she stood for some time perfectly still—whether in musing 
mood, or in expectancy of some one, it was impossible to tell. 
Richard was half resolved to cross the meadow, and gain a 


246 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


nearer view, when Aunt Jane came to the door, and looking in 
every direction but the right one, exclaimed, ‘ Where on earth 
is the boy ?” and, as she saw him, added, “ Come in; you will 
get your death of cold.” And Richard went in, and ate with 
better relish, and talked more than he had before in a month. 
Perhaps he didn’t know why, himself; very probably not; nev- 
ertheless, if he had not seen the lady in the moonlight, the 
humanizing sensations he now experienced would have had no 
place in his heart. Once or twice he was about to ask some- 
thing respecting the cabin, yet he hesitated, he scarce knew 
why ; but at length, thinking to gain indirectly the knowledge 
he desired, he said, “ What thick woods you have at the north, 
here ?” | 

“Yes,” said Aunt Jane, and then proceeded to tell how a 
neighbor’s little boy was lost there a few days previous, and 
that half the village had been engaged in the search; at all of 
which Richard expressed great wonder, adding, “It will not be 
left there much longer for boys to be lost in; I see there are 
some clearings into it already.” But in this he failed, as before, 
and went on to say that some sort of a house stood close against 
the woods, if he were not mistaken; to which Aunt Jane 
replied, that he was not mistaken, that a house did stand there. 

“It seems a desolate place. Any person living there?” asked 
Richard. 

Aunt Jane replied that no persons lived there, laying stress 
on the word persons—at which the young folks exchanged 
smiles. 

“How do you like the view of our village by moonlight ?” 
asked Uncle Peter ; and Richard’s curiosity was left ungratified 
for that night. 

His chamber chanced to be at the north end of the house, 
and before retiring he drew aside the curtain and surveyed 
the scene. The light was still burning brightly as before, and a 
sudden shower of red sparkles issued from the low stone chim- 
ney as he looked, and ran, burning and glimmering, along the 
dark, indicating that the fire was not without attention. He fell 
asleep, thinking of the woman; and whether she were old or 


A NEW START. 247 


young, pretty or ugly, and concluding, of course, that she was 
neither old nor unpardonably plain. 

The next morning, after breakfast, he discovered a small tree 
in the edge of the northern meadow, which, he said, wanted pru- 
ning, very badly, proffering his services at the same time. 

“It is not the season,” said Uncle Peter; but Richard insist- 
ed that the season would make no difference, that, in fact, 
he believed it was then the best season; and in a few minutes 
he had crossed the meadow, and was lopping off the boughs with 
alacrity, glancing now and then towards the mysterious cabin. 
There were roses and lilacs all around the door, ivy trained 
over the wall, and jasmine about the window. The fence enclo- 
sing the house was of the rudest description, and just without 
stood the blackened stumps and trees before referred to, nor 
was the yard itself entirely free from them, but here they were 
covered with vines of wild grapes, hops, or the wild morning- 
glory, which in summer transformed them to columns of ver- 
durous beauty. Just now, they were whitened with the snow- 
flakes which had fallen during the night. The curtain was 
drawn close over the window, and no other sign of life was 
discoverable, save the smoke, which hung about the roof and 
settled in long blue ridges near the ground. 

Richard was a long time pruning the tree, but the task was 
completed at length, and it proved an almost fruitless stratagem, 
for what he had seen heightened without satisfying his curios- 
ity ; and as he crossed the damp meadow homeward, he felt 
as much vexed as disappointed, and perhaps more so, when 
Uncle Peter said, “I think the tree is not much improved ; 
besides, you have made your feet wet and your hands cold; but 
that is not the worst yOu have missed seping the cantor girl 
in the whole village.” 

Pretty girls were nothing to him, Richard said; and going 
moodily into the house, sat by the fire, with the newspaper, in 
which he affected to be completely absorbed. 

Presently Aunt Jane came that way, to see if her yeast, 
which was in an earthen jar, covered over with the table-cloth, 
and placed close in the corner, were not rising, and, beating 


248 . OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


it briskly with the iron spoon she said, “ You asked, Dicky, 
something about the cabin across the field, last night ?” 

Richard merely said “ Yes,” without looking up, and she 
continued— 

“The young woman who lives there was to see me this 
morning. She came in at one door the very minute you went 
out of the other.” 

“ Ah,” said Richard, for he was too much provoked to say 
more. 

“ Just see how my yeast is coming up!” exclaimed Aunt 
Jane. “My work is getting all before me. I stopped to talk 
too much with Caty.” 

Much as Richard desired to know something about the 
visitor, and if she were Caty, and wherefore she lived alone, he 
forebore to ask—so perverse is the heart. 7 

“Come, Richard,” said Uncle Peter, as he drew on his mit- 
tens, “I am going down to Medford. Won’t you go along ? 
It will be beginning business, you know; and on the way we 
can tack up the sign.” 

But Richard said he didn’t feel like going, and so moped 
around all day. 

Busily Aunt Jane kept about her work; everything was 
ready for her just as she was ready for it, save that her yeast 
did get a little before her. However, she said she believed the 
dough-nuts would be all the better for that; and towards even- 
ing, when she fried them, expressed her conviction of the fact, 
asking Richard, as she gave him two or three, on a little blue 
dish, if he didn’t think so too. He thought them very good— 
probably all the better for waiting; and concluded by saying, 
“ What good luck some people always have!” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Jane, “it’s better to be born lucky than 
rich ;” and she gave him another cake, telling him to keep his 
fingers warm with that, and go, like a good boy, and put up the 
sign: that he didn’t know how soon Dr. Claverel might be 
needed. There was no resisting this kind appeal; and taking 
the warm cake in one hand and the sign in the other, he did as 
directed. "When it was fastened to the gate post, he stepped a 
little aside, and whistling a tune, surveyed it with some degree 


A NEW START. 249 


of pride, as ‘the badge of his profession. While thus engaged, 
a light step, crushing the snow, arrested his attention, and look- 
ing up, he saw before him a young and seemingly very pretty girl, 
though she was too much muffled in hood and shawl to enable him 
to judge with much certainty. In one hand she held a small bas- 
ket, and in the other two or three books. “ Some school girl,” 
thought Richard; “I will-see to which of the cottages she 
betakes herself;” and giving the innocent sign a smart rap with 
the hammer, as he wondered whether she saw him, looking 
delightedly at his own name, he leaned against the gate to 
await her movements—having fixed on the cottage with green 
blinds as her home; “ for, surely,” he thought, “she cannot be 
walking far.” Nor was he mistaken in this. The cottages 
stood to the east of the road, which was bordered to the west 
by the woods, with the clearing, and the cabin, which were away 
from the road, and nearly opposite Uncle Peter’s. One, two, 
three, of the pretty cottages are passed, and he now thought, 
«“ This is the second time, to-day, I have reconnoitred in vain,” 
when, opening a gate in the edge of the forest, the young woman 
began to cross the field in the direction of the little cabin. His 
way now lay parallel with hers, and musing whether she were 
the Caty who lived there alone, he walked homeward, not for- 
getting to remark whether her walk was terminated by the 
cabin door, as proved to be the case. He felt glad—trium ph- 
ant as it were; he had seen the object of the last night’s 
curiosity, and found her all his fancy painted; and entering the 
house, in high glee, he said, as he removed the tea-kettle, which 
was boiling into the fire, “ Well, Aunt Jane, I have put up my 
sign, and more than that, I have seen Caty.” 

“ You don’t say !” said Aunt Jane, arranging the tea to draw ; 
“but how should you know Caty Allen?” 

“Caty Allen—rather pretty—is that her name Y 

“That is the name of the young woman that lives in the cabin, 
if it was her you saw. But,” added Aunt Jane, “ she is not so 
very young, either.” ) 

This last information didn’t much please Richard, and he 
replied that he should not think her so very old—not more than 


3 


250 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


forty. “But,” he continued, “how the deuce does she live 
alone?” 

“It’s a long story, and I must go and milk my cow;” and 
wrapping herself in what had once been her credle blanket, 
Aunt Jane went forth, and the young man remained by the fire, 
listening to the singing of the tea-kettle, and in a musing mood. 
He wondered why he didn’t feel lonesome and home-sick, as he 
always before had felt. He supposed it was because he was at 
Aunt Jane’s; and then the village looked beautiful in the dis- 
ance on the one side, and the woods on the other. He would 
not have them away on any account. It was the fine back- 
ground of a glorious picture. 

There was a noise at the door: could Aunt Jane have 
milked the cow so soon? <A loud rap, as with a stick; and, 
opening the door, the person in waiting, a mechanic or laboring 
man of some sort, inquired if Dr. Claverel was in. Richard 
answered that that was his name, drawing himself up with a 
sense of professional dignity ; on which the stranger said, “I 
want you to come down and see my woman. She has suffered 
everything, I guess, with the toothache;” and, putting one 
finger in his mouth, he tried to show Richard which one he 
believed it was, and at the same time endeavored to tell the 
various remedies his woman had applied in vain—‘“ mustard- 
plasters, and hops steeped in vinegar; but now it had got to 
jumping, and just five minutes before, she had concluded to 
have it drawed.” 

With scarce a regret for the warm fire and supper he left, 
Richard was off. He found his patient a pale little nervous 
woman, who seemed, as her husband said, to have suffered 
everything. Nevertheless, she still persisted in saying she 
would rather have her head taken off than that the Doctor 
should touch her tooth, and asking over and over if he thought 
it would be painful. 

“Slightly so,” said Richard. ‘“ We can’t draw teeth without 
giving some pain, but I have never had a patient make the least 
complaint of my manner of operating. Let me see the tooth, 
madam.” 

A little encouragéd, and a little afraid of the Doctor, the 


? 


A NEW START. 251 


woman opened her mouth; and without a moment’s delay the 
fatal instrument was applied, and the offender extracted, the 
young Doctor saying, as he presented it to her view, “ You see 
it is no awful thing to have a tooth drawn. Is it, madam?” 

“Now, wouldn’t you have been sorry,” said the husband, “ if 
the Doctor had came, and you would not have had it drawed ?” 
And he patted her cheek, calling her a little coward. 

“Have you lived long in these parts?” imagining, probably, 
they had not been married long, asked Richard. 

“Seven years and five months and two days and about three 
hours. Isn’t it, wifey ?” 

“T am sure I don’t know,” said the wife, blushing slightly. 

“Now, you do know just as well as can be,” said the hus- 
band. ‘“ You know we came the day you made the preacher 
the promise !” 

“Oh, hush!” said the wife. “ You have so many odd ways.” 

“ Have I?” said the young man.. “ Let me see that little bit 
of a toofy ?” 

And Richard hastened to inquire whether there was much 
sickness in the village. 

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, “pretty considerable. She 
isn’t well,” indicating his wife. “She has never saw a well day 
since we ae been here ; and, touching his wife’s comb with 
his riding whip, he said, ‘ Shan’t the new Doctor come and cure 
you? Don’t. you want him to, if I want him to?” 

It was soon agreed between them that the Doctor, who had 
so miraculously drawn the tooth, should call again in the 
morning, and continue his professional attentions till the woman 
should have quite recovered—the Doctor expressing the most 
sanguine expectation of fully restoring her health. 

A new broom sweeps clean, is a saying that finds its appli- 
cation every day. Here was an instance. A poor woman had 
been sick for seven years without obtaining medical aid, chiefly 
because she washed for the Doctor who had previously lived in 
the village, and knew the number of his socks and shirts, as 
also the color of all his neckcloths, That his medicine could 
do her no good, it was very resonable to believe; but when a 
new man came, there was no knowing the measure of his skill. 


252 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


She repeated to all her neighbors the wonderful facility with 
which her tooth had been extracted, and affirmed that, though 
she died, nobody in the world should attend her but Dr. Claverel. 

“TY wonder if he can perform such wonders!” said one to 
another. 

And so patronage came into his hands, and fortune at last 
seemed to smile; but, alas, in the brightening twilight of the 
morning hung the evil star. 


THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 253 


THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


Waar a continual war of good and evil there is in life, and 
how often we feel in these “homeless moors” of the world, in 
view of the bondage of wrong, that it were of all things the best 
if we might fly existence! but then the mystery that is lying 
under that terrible and awful shadow, Death! it might be even 
worse than this present suffering. And so, clinging to the dark 
and yearning for the light, we live on, in trembling hesitancy, 
afraid to root up the thorns which have given us shelter in some 
sort, lest no roses may spring in their place. ‘The love of the 
flesh keeps down our prayers; the present is strong on our 
souls; and for the future, “it rambles out in endless aisles of 
mist, the further still the darker.” How hard it is to think 
correctly and act firmly—how hard, even to be true to our con- 
victions— 


‘¢ For yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood.” 


Silently on the cabin roof the snow sifted and sifted until it was 
piled in a thick mass overhanging the eaves and the gables, 
Around the low stone chimney, a hand’s breadth of black alone 
was visible. About the door the ground was bare, for the wind 
had been busy, as fantastic curves and curious ridges and 
patches of naked ground attested. Across the smooth white 
meadows, and along the edges of the woods, were the tracks of 
the rabbits, driven forth by their own hunger or the hunger of 
the stronger animals that hunted them from their burrows, 


254 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


The rose vines were weighed to the ground, and all the limbs 
of the trees held their ridges of snow, save that now and then, 
as a stronger wind came by, a little bough shook down its bur- 
den and uplifted itself as before. The stubs in the clearing 
looked like beautiful sculptures, and the many stumps like 
higher heaps of snow. 

Close to the edge of the wood, and leading to the main road, 
a narrow path is trodden from the cabin., It is night, a dismal 
winter night, and the light shines through the little window 
across the level snow, through the window with its drapery of 
frosty vines. The small brown birds that have been twittering 
about the door all day, now picking the crumbs which the hand 
of the cottage girl has kindly scattered, and now dipping their 
wings in some loose drift, and scattering the flakes abroad again, 
have gone to the favorite roost, and are quite still, one shining 
red foot drawn up in the warm feathers, and one clasping the 
bough beneath. Crooked limbs of oak and maple, and smooth- 
sticks of white ash, are heaped up in the deep fireplace, and the 
ruddy glow shines over the blue hearthstones where the cricket 
sits singing to himself, across the floor and along the opposite 
wall. How the gilt lettering shines from the shelf of books, 
how the face of the old-fashioned clock glistens, how the blue 
cups and nicely polished platters in the dressers glow again. 
The room is humble and very quiet, but the broad blaze and 
the smile of Caty makes it cheerful, and yet her smile is half 
sad. An hour ago she was sewing by the table, and singing 
happily some careless roundelay of love; then the song grew 
still, and she wrought on for some time in silence; then the 
work fell from her hands, and opening a volume, she read about 
some hapless shepherd who went from the flowery crofts and 
the white tendance of his harmless fold, “ to the still beckoning 
of a shadowy hand, into the unseen land.” But now, though 
her eyes are still resting on the page, she turns the leaves no 
more. Is she thinking of the poor shepherd, and gathering 
flowers to strew about his visionary corse? or sees she, in im- 
agination, 

‘The rough briers that pull, 
From his stray lambs, the wool ?” 


THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 255 


No; the sorrow that overspreads her face comes up from her 
own heart. Across the dark woods, and over the hills by the 
old ruinous church, the snow is heaped high and smooth over a 
new mound. ‘There is no head-stone, for she was a widow, and 
very poor, who lies below, leaving only the humblest roof for 
the orphan who sits musing to-night so sadly. Yes, more than 
the roof—the example of a pious life and her dying blessing. 
She pushes the dark mass of hair away from her forehead, and 
leans one cheek on the thin, pallid hand, for she seems wasted 
with pain or care; but the expression of the face is too fixed 
and calm—she is not musing of the dead. 

There is a sudden gust; the flame flashed higher and higher, 
and the door creaks; the fast-beating heart sends the crimson 
to her cheek. Since the day the white sheet was wrapped 
about her mother’s coffin, she has been used to the silence and 
the darkness, and is not afraid. Why should the wind startle 
her? Perhaps she fears the coming of some simple but kind- 
hearted neighbor, who will repeat the old story—how wrong 
it is to grieve, and how much better off are the dead. Idle, 
idle! she knows it all; but for that knowledge did one mourner 
ever weep the less? She does not fear that it is aunt Jane, for 
her condolence is not obtrusive ; she does not say, how much 
greater God’s wisdom is than ours, and how rebellious it is to 
question or mourn over his providence. ‘True, she talks of the 
divine goodness, of the pleasant sunshine, of the pure cold 
water, and the warm genial fire—of all the blessings that are 
in the world—and with her own hands brings them near, so 
near that the young orphan sees them and feels them, and rises 
up strengthened to go about her household cares, and give her 
soul to peace. Aunt Jane is one of the true comforters. She 
does not open afresh the closing wound, by even talking of the 
virtues of the dead, recounting the fortitude with which they en- 
dured suffering, and the pious resignation with which they met 
the great agony, nor repeat their last words, nor call back the 
look they wore in the coffin, and give a last obtrusive exhorta- 
tion on the duty of resignedness to the will of God. She does 
not scrupulously avoid all mention of suffering or of death; but 
she makes not these the burden of all conversation. Sometimes 


256 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


she sends a bowl of sweet milk, sometimes a-loaf of bread or 
cake, sometimes the last newspaper, and sometimes even a 
sample of her new dress. ‘These little things are not without 
meaning—they have a humanizing tendency, reconcile us to 
live yet in the world, and stimulate us to do in return good 
deeds. 

In the by-ways of life, there are a great many such good 
women as Aunt Jane. It is not she whom Caty fears, as she 
turns eagerly to the door, and yet she would be no happier for 
her coming to-night. It was only the wind! there was no hand 
on the latch, nor does she hear the approach of any footsteps ; 
there is only the sound of a team crushing through the snow 
along the highway. The clock strikes; she will not look around, 
but counts every stroke. Seven, only seven! It was later last 
night, and the night before ; and, rising, she lays the embers 
that have fallen, together again, and resumes her work. It has 
been dark so long that she scarcely can think it is not later. “I 
have resolved,” she says, “and must act as I have resolved, and 
what matters it whether he comes to-night or not: if he comes, 
it must be the last time;” and glancing at the clock, she 
sighed, for it was in the very hope he would come that she 
gathered the resolve. Oh, how long the moments were! ano- 
ther, and another, and another! And yet no step disturbs the 
silence. One minute her hands lie idle in her lap, and gazing 
steadily in the fire, she tries to conjure images out of the burn- 
ing coals. In vain—she cannot see the maiden playing the harp, 
nor the church with its slender spire, nor the old man leading a 
child, nor the dog watching the two ducks as they swim grace- 
fully away; she sees nothing but burning coals, though all 
these were here last night. Another minute, and she re-opens 
the closed book, and turns leaf after leaf in quick succession, 
but it will not do; it were as well for her to turn blank leaves 
as those printed ones, whether they be romance or history, or 
the divine insanity of dreams. Presently this truth becomes 
quite clear to her, and closing the bock, she rises and walks to 
and fro across the floor, every now and then pressing her face 
to the window, and, seeing but the cold blank reach of snow, 
turns away, and walks more hurriedly than before. The clock 


THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 257 


strikes. This time it is eight. The tears will be restrained no 
longer, and freely they flow, until the sounds of her emotion 
quite drown the footstep that rings on the threshold. The visi- 
tur seems consciously welcome, and after a slight rap, opens 
the door himself, saying gaily, as he enters, “ And so you are 
not pleased to see me to-night, or your fire would be less dim, 
and your welcome less slow !” 

And Caty, turning quickly, betrays all her feeling, and in 
the anguish of the moment, is not ashamed that she betrays it: 
“Oh, you are come at last. I am so glad you are come !” 

These were not the words Caty had intended to speak to 
Richard, for the reader knows well enough that it was he whom 
she expected, he who came; but the heart spoke in spite of the 
prohibition laid on the lips. Nor did she shrink from the arm 
that encircled her, or reprove the secretly forbidden kiss. 

She had been so alone, so desolate in the world, duty had 
seemed so hard, and the world so dark! but Richard had come, 
and her low-roofed cabin grew a paradise. How pleasant it 
was to teach the little district school, and how the children 
loved her, and every day brought her fruit or flowers, or what- 
ever they chanced to have; how pleasant to go home at night 
and renew the cheerful fire, and sit by the table, with book 
or work—for then Richard was sure to come, and this, after 
all, was the secret that gave its new aspect to the world. 

He had been successful, beyond all his hopes, and with success 
had come amiability; and more than this, the great purifier and 
refiner of life had taken up its abode in his heart; all the 
better qualities of his nature were expanding, blooming back to 
the light of a smile. He was not the selfish, despondent Rich- 
ard he was of old; not at all; but full of sunny cheerfulness 
and hope. ‘True, there was something of the old leaven in his 
nature ; something of selfishness; and he still clung to the fatal 
delusion that he could do no otherwise than he did. 

Curiosity, perhaps, and a desire to relieve the ennui which 
oppressed him, prompted his first visits to the cabin. He 
presently saw, however, the tendency of things, yet delayed 
to give up feeling to the mastery of judgment, until it became, 
if not impossible, at least a very hard thing to do. ‘“ Caty 


258 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


must be very lonesome to-night,” he would say, “don’t you 
think so, Aunt Jane? Even I, perhaps, will be some relief to 
the old place.” 

Aunt Jane, in the kindness and innocency of her nature, 
would say, “ Yes—but don’t stay late, Dicky ;” and so, feeling in 
some sort fortified by her sanction, he would go, saying, “If we 
be the happier for being together to-night, let the morrow take 
care of itself.” Then, too, he would try to persuade himself 
that he was doing a purely disinterested and benevolent thing. 
Caty, naturally of a melancholy temper, would be sad, for that 
the wind whistled in such a dismal way; else it was cloudy 
and raining, and such gloomy weather affected the mind; espe- 
cially of one recently bereaved; it really became his duty, at 
such times, to brighten the darkness as much as possible. Then, 
again, there was a full moon, and such nights were the loneliest 
in the world, worse than clouds or winds; he could neither read 
nor sleep; he wished some patient would call him, it would be 
arelief; but he had no idea one would; it would be of no use 
to stay at home on that account; to go to the village was too 
far, and Caty lived right across the meadow: he believed he 
would go there for a part of the evening. Such apologies he made 
to himself, and believed or affected to believe them sufficient, 
though if he had permitted any searching of his heart, he would 
have found the motive and the prompter of his conduct there. 

When John Gilpin took his famous ride, he went because his 
horse would go, and when Richard Claverel went to the cabin, 
he went because his thoughts would go; nor did he try to curb 
or check them in the least. Self-sacrifice is a hard thing; to 
climb the iced mountain, to front the blinding sunshine of the 
desert, or to face a thousand foes, if there be the remotest 
possibility of ultimate success, were, in comparison, an easy 
thing. To love what seems to us lovable ig human nature, 
and so loving, to desire the love of the being loved, is nature 
still. 

‘Who ean curiously behold 


The smoothness and the sheen of beauty’s cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow cold?” 


Not the mighty bard whose life was made sorrowful by the 


THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 259 


one great need, and who went pining out of life because no soft 
hands held him back; and not the humble and unheard-of vil- 
lager, however much he may seem insensible to those softer 
spells which have their power in palaces—however quietly and 
coldly he appears to lead an even and sequestered life. 

“T will not suffer my heart to be touched,” said Richard ; 
but if his heart had not already been touched, he would have 
felt no need to say it; and when at last he could no longer con- 
ceal the truth from himself, he said, “I alone will be the suf 
ferer, she shall never know my love, nor will I ask her to love 
me in return.” 

What need was there that he should? And if he did not, it 
was only that he might have something upon which to rest his 
violated conscience, for he knew that 


“Twas a thousand nameless actions 
Idle words can never say, 
Felt without the need of utterance, 
That had won her heart away.” 


And so they sat together by the winter fire—Richard and 
Caty. She at least was innocent. As she said, she had been 
alone and desolate in the world; Richard had been kind to her, 
and she had learned to love him before she knew that he had 
no hand with which to give to her his heart ; and now how could 
she tear away the shelter from her saddened life, and once more 
stand alone—a thousand times more alone than before. And 
what excuse or consolation had Richard to offer? “The world 
is all before us,” he said, “ where to choose our place of rest. 
We did not give ourselves the natures we have; and are the 
strongest impulses of that nature to be forever crushed down ? 
And if they are, who, in this instance, will be benefited—men, 
or angels? Neither. And even if they were, do we owe no 
duties to ourselves? I, for one, do not believe that eternal 
sacrifice, eternal abnegation of self, is the highest duty. Are 
we required to sit in the shade when the sunshine is abroad, to 
fold a napkin over our eyes when the stars are in heaven; or 
shall we sit in the genial warmth of the one, and lift our souls 
to the eternal grandeur of the other? Shall we turn away from 
the fresh fountain, and drink of the bitter and stagnant pool ? 
No! Shall we part as you advise, and thereby break our 


260 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


spirits and unfit ourselves for the good work we might other- 
wise do? Or shall we go through the world together, helping 
and strengthening each other? There is no more sacred tie 
than that which binds us to one another now. With you, I am 
strong enough to front the most adverse fortune ; without you, 
I am poor and helpless.” 

Alas, for Caty. She had no answer but tears. What would 
Aunt Jane say? What would all the worldsay? And would 
not her own heart condemn her ? 

“‘ Away in the West there are valleys as green as this; there 
we can make a home, there we can make new friends. None 
will have ever seen or heard of us, and we may live lives of 
usefulness and honor, for we shall neither dishonor ourselves 
nor the higher power. Love in its strength and purity can 
prompt to no wrong; and, yielding to its dictates, our lives are 
henceforth one, and cannot be divided. If we part, the world 
will be a waste, and we poor wanderers in the dark.” 

Whether Richard spoke sincere convictions I know not, but 
from my knowledge of his character I believe he did. Caty 
was neither a child nor an infirm creature, but she had known 
poverty and sorrow and all the hard struggles of life, and there 
is such a thing as reasoning ourselves astray. And to-night, 
when the torrent of anguish which fancied desertion had rolled 
against her was swept off, her heart was more than ever sus- 
ceptible to the softer impressions. 

The smooth sticks of white ash and the crooked boughs of 
oak and maple had long been burned to a glowing mass, the 
cricket sang in the hearth, now and then some heavier weight 
of snow fell from the shaken bough, and high and cold and pale 
the moon shone over all. : 

And in the glow of the embers, nor thinking of its genial 
warmth, nor listening to the song of the cricket, nor gazing up 
toward the moon, sat the lovers. The clock had struck many 
times since the girl had counted it last, but in the old cherry 
tree by Aunt Jane’s door the cock is crowing lustily, and her 
light will presently be glimmering through the pane in “answer 


to his call. 
‘‘ Who called thee strong as death, O love, 
Mightier thou wert and art.” 


SPRING, AND THE SUGAR CAMP. 261 


SPRING, AND THE SUGAR CAMP. 


Tur winter was almost gone. Patches of snow lay on the 
northern slopes of the hills: the moss about the roots of the 
trees began to grow green again; the buds were swelling in 
the lilacs, and the little birds picking up sticks and gathering 
shreds of wool from the brier vines, which were reddening more 
every day, to build new nests or repair their old ones ; and, as 
the village maid sits spinning the flax by the window, she sings : 

‘¢ March is piping spring’s sweet praises, 
Night by night the new moon fills, 
Soon the golden-hearted daisies 
> Will be over all the hills.” 

Mr. Claverel has already laid by the coat for the coming 
summer, and, with the white sleeves rolled back from the red 
ones, is busily at work in the sugar camp. A rudely-built stone 
arch stands just in the edge of a hill thickly wooded with ma- 
ples, and a great fire is blazing under the half dozen black ket- 
tles, of huge dimensions, filled with their sap. Jets of red 
flame issue from the chimney, and clouds of white vapor rise 
from the boiling liquid, and blow away toward the south. 

Fronting the furnace, is a rudely constructed cabin, of which 
the side next the fire is entirely open. It is nicely carpeted 
with fresh straw, and furnished with a wooden bench, and a pail 
of “sugar water.” From the buckeye logs of which the hut is 
composed, fresh twigs are sprouting. How vigorous and thrifty 
they look, as if the trunk from which they grow had still its 
root in the life-giving soil! Made fast in a crevice of the wall 
are two of the late “ Republicans,” so that when Mr. Claverel 
sits down to rest, he may also be reading a little. Over haste 


262 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


is over waste, is one of his maxims, and his hard labor is tem: 
pered occasionally with a little respite; and in this way he 
learns whose prospects are brightest for the next Presidency, 
whose principles are most in accordance with his own, how to 
keep flies from plaguing cattle, what is the principle of the last 
invented plough, with now and then a certain cure for the rheu- 
matism, though such things Mr. Claverel always protested were 
humbugs, enlarging at the same time on the wonderful virtues 
of red flannel, both as a preventive and cure. All these things 
he ascertained, and a great many more, that his neighbors, who 
did not read the Republican, never knew anything about. 

From a deep and dark hollow, away in the thick woods, rung 
the axe strokes of David and Oliver, for they had gathered their 
books together ten days before the “rewards of merit” were 
distributed, and heaped them in the old closet again for a six 
months’ rest. David had been particularly sorry for this, inas- 
much as the master often selected him to “choose sides,” be- 
sides pointing the younger scholars to him asa worthy example 
of steady and patient perseverance, Certainly his hopes of 
carrying off the first honor were not without foundation ; never- 
theless, when his father said, “ think, boys, to-morrow will be 
a good ‘sugar day,’ and, if I could only have you to help, 
we might get nicely under way,” it required that he should 
say no more. A little sadly, it is true, David went to 
the barn and twisted a string of unspun flax, which he managed 
to do with his fingers and teeth, musing the while whether John 
Hart or Abner Betts would get the first prize. He said nothing 
of his reluctance to leave school, however—nothing of his inten- 
tion to leave, but at night, when he returned home, he brought 
his books with him, tied together with the flaxen string, 

Eyery one said, “ David is a good boy ;” but every one ex- 
pected him to be just as patient and industrious and mild. 
tempered as he was; so that he received less credit, perhaps, 
than he would have had for but an occasional good act. Even 
the heart of his mother remembered Richard first. 

Carlo, the house-dog, enjoyed the sugar-making vastly, and 
went rambling up and down the woods, now starting a rabbit 
from its burrow of leaves, and now barking at the foot of some 


SPRING, AND THE SUGAR CAMP. 268 


tree, from the safe top of which a squirrel is peeping down. 
Sometimes Martha and Jane are his companions, and sometimes 
they wander off by themselves, gathering curious stones, or 
stripping the moss—golden, and green, and brown—from the 
decayed logs which lay about the woods; and digging roots 
with bits of sticks, which they tie in bunches with dead grass, 
and call radishes, parsnips, &c., the while Carlo lies soberly be- 
fore the fire, with his nose close to the ground, watching the 
jets of flame and the white vapor as it blows away on the wind, 
that is sometimes chilling cold as in mid-winter, and sometimes 
soft and bland as in April. : 

From the top of the dead tree in the meadow the crow calls 
all day long; and the rivulets, swollen with recent rains, babble 
noisily from the hollows, where the violets are sprouting with 
their circular and notched leaves, from which no blue flower js 
peering yet. There, too, the spotted leaves of the adder’s 
tongue are thick, and the pale pink shoots of the mandrake are 
beginning to push aside the leaves. Soon the daisies will spot 
the southern slopes, and the daffodils and purple flags bloom 
flauntingly beneath the homestead windows. 

The brown tops of the distant woods are all a-glow—for the 
sun is going down, and the waters are flashing, and the ragged 
shadows are growing longer. Marthaand Jane and Carlo linger 
yet in the woods, and the ringing strokes of the axes sound yet 
from the hollow, and are echoed back from the distant hill. Mr. 
Claverel, after heaping the furnace with great logs of hickory, 
with heart so hard and red, and tasting the syrup to see how 
sweet it is growing, walks slowly homeward, a little bent, for 
he is tired, and with his hands crossed behind him, for he is 
thoughtful. The ground, which the thaw has made very soft 
during the day, stiffens as the sun declines, and, as he comes 
near his home, grows quite hard—so hard that its surface is not 
broken by the heifer that runs along the lane to meet him, 
thinking, perhaps, he has an ear of corn for her. But no—he 
does not stop to pat her glossy back, or say, “Get out of my 
path, ‘ Bossy ;’” and, lashing her sides with her tail, she stretches 


her head and neck to their full extent, and lows to some fellow 
across the field. 


264 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Mrs. Claverel stands at the door with a bowl of yellow but- 
ter in her hand, which she has just taken from the churn. She 
is tired too, but she smiles cheerfully—for she is never too tired 
to smile—and says, looking toward the sunset, “I think, 
Sammy, we shall have a pleasant day for our visit to-morrow.” 


‘The evening red, the morning gray, 

Ts a sure sign of a fair day,” 
replied Mr. Claverel; and taking up a neatly arranged parcel 
from a chair, he seated himself, asking what it was. 

Just what he might have known it was—a little present for 
Richard ; some warm woollen socks, a new handkerchief and 
cravat, with two or three shirts, which nobody could make so 
well as his mother. 

“ Really, Dolly, you are always doing some good thing, and 
this time Iam glad to know Richard deserves your kindness, 
I guess, however, he is successful more by hit than good wit, 
for he was never the boy to work and wait.” —_- 

Mrs. Claverel looked a little saddened and reproachful, but 
said nothing, and Mr. Claverel continued, “ Well, we shall see 
what we shall, to-morrow ; and we had best start early, hadn’t 
we, Dolly ?’ and having received an affirmative reply to this 
suggestion, he set about little preparations for the proposed visit 
to Uncle Peter’s. 


THE END OF THE ILL-STARRED. 265 


THE END OF THE ILL-STARRED. 


Tue light wagon was drawn in front of the door, fragrant 
with tar and new straw; a basket of apples, and some small 
niceties, which Mrs. Claverel had selected, arranged for safe 
transportation. Before the fire hung the red flannel shirt and 
the new trowsers, that they might be “good and warm” in the 
morning ; and the cap and dress, which Mrs. Claverel said were 
almost too gay and fashionable for her, but which had been 
purchased for the special occasion, were also placed conveniently 
at hand. 

Martha and Jane come laughing down the lane, each with a 
Jong withered weed at her side, which she calls a horse, and 
before them trots the sleek heifer. She looks angry, and as if 
she were half inclined not to “ give down her milk” to-night ; 
and a little behind, soberly, and with axes over their shoulders, 
come David and Oliver. They are tired, and hoping supper 
will be ready. 

Oh, Martha,” says Jane, as she leans her weed against the 
fence, and calls it putting her horse in the stable, “ just look! 
Some old woman is coming to our house. Who can she be, 
riding an old white horse, and with a great basket on the horn 
of her saddle? She must be a peddler woman.” 

Martha looks up, and skipping past, with a look of wise 
indignation, hastens to inform her mother that Aunt Jane has 
come, and that her sister called her an old peddler woman! 

“Why, Aunt Jane!” exclaims Mr. Claverel, as he assists her 
to alight, as much as to say, what in the world brings you 
here? But the face full of benevolent kindness, does not look 
as if any one was dead; and he ventures to ask if all were well 

12 


266 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


at home, to which Aunt Jane responds affirmatively, looking in 
her basket as she says nobody is sick or dead, as she knows of. 
Mr. Claverel is satisfied, and leads the white horse toward the 
barn. Not so, Mrs. Claverel; she feels instinctively that all is 
not right, and her premonitory fears point to Richard. 

“Ts he sick, or dead? neither—what, then ?” and before Aunt 
Jane unties her bonnet she learns the truth. He is gone, no 

‘one knows whither, and has taken with him, as everybody 
supposes, the village school-mistress. Little comfort is it now. 
to hear how well he did; how many persons he had cured, who 
had previously had the advice of the greatest physicians, 
besides trying almost everything in the world they could hear 
of; how much money he made, and how well every body 
thought of him. . 

He has gone, and every one but his mother and Aunt Jane 
forgets the right he has done, in the wrong. Mr. Claverel says 
he always expected some such thing; and after supper, which 
he does not want, says he must go to Clovernook, and takes 
with him the camphor bottle to be refilled, though it is half-full 
now, and requires no replenishing; he merely wishes to get rid 
of his thoughts—that is all. He will find it a hard thing, poor 
man! And especially, as he will meet with many persons 
ready to remind him of his sorrow. Thoughtfully, he goes 
through the deepening twilight, thinking very sorrowfully. He 
does not hear the clatter of the hoofs on the road behind him, 
till the rider overtakes him, and reins in his horse, glossy-black, 
with a pink nose and a strip of white in his face. 

“Good evening, worthy neighbor,” says the familiar voice ; 
“] have been recently made aware of a fact of a very painful 
nature, connected intimately with yourself, but more intimately 
still with your eldest born, Dr. Richard Claverel. I was, as 
you may readily suppose, averse to receiving the evidence 
without demur or question, and accordingly made the most 
rigid scrutiny of the report, purporting to be simply a strict 
relation of facts; but my zealous efforts to find any flaw were 
signally baffled, as from the first, indeed. I had cause to fear, 
inasmuch as my informant, in all the multifarious relations 
which it has been my fortune to hold with him for a term of 


THE END OF THE ILL-STARRED. 267 


years, the positive extent of which I do not remember, has 
proven himself a man of invariable honesty, integrity, and 
veracity, to the fullest and amplest meaning of those words. 
Therefore, I have been constrained, neighbor Claverel, to reluct- 
ant acquiescence in the now prevalent belief that your eldest 
born, Dr. Richard Claverel, has abandoned the practice of his 
profession in the hamlet of Medford, which my informant states 
to have been lucrative, and of a nature satisfactory to his 
various employers, and to have secretly departed in that dark 
portion of time which we are accustomed to denominate night, 
and to have taken with him a young woman of comely per- 
sonal endowments, and mental parts—of unusual development 
and cleverness, who has, for a number of consecutive months, 
been employed in teaching the young idea how to shoot, in a 
small school in the aforesaid hamlet. Allow me, worthy neigh- 
bor, to offer you my sympathy on this sorrowfully interesting - 
occasion, and to beg that you present to Mistress Claverel the 
assurance of my unabated and continued friendship, and regard, 
and esteem. <A very good evening to you, worthy neighbor 
Claverel;” and Mr. Jameson gave the rein to his black steed, » 
which in a prancing sideways fashion, obeyed the signal, while 
Mr. Claverel took the camphor bottle from his pocket and 
shook it violently. 

But this was only the beginning of sorrows. Calling at Dr. 
Hilton’s for a pint of the best alcohol, as also for a little cheer- 
ful talk, he found the Doctor out, and seated in the arm-chair, 
awaiting his return, the loquacious Mrs. Bates. She thought 
likely Dr. Hilton could tell what she wanted to know: “ But 
you,” she said, addressing Mr. Claverel, ‘can doubtless tell me 
what I want to know, as well as Dr. Hilton could tell me what 
I want to know, because you are full likelier to know what I 
want to know, than he is likely to know what I want to know.” 
Mr. Claverel set the camphor bottle on the table with such 
violence as to break it in a dozen pieces, and the lady continued, 
“It’s no use mourning over spilt milk, nor spilt camphor either, 
for that is a small thing to have done, compared to some things 
that have been done, if things have been done that people say 
have been done, and I suppose you know whether things have 


268 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


been done as folks say they have been done, or whether they 
have’nt been done.” 

“ What do folks say ?’ asked Mr. Claverel, quietly. 

“ Why, they say that a man has just come over from Med- 
ford, where Dick has been living all so fine, and they say he 
should have said that the young Doctor has run away with a 
school mistress, they say he should have said. But if he 
thought he abandinged my daughter, he was mistaken ; for my 
daughter was divorced by the law two weeks come Saturday, 
and so he was the abandinged one.” 

Mr. Claverel did not purchase a new bottle, nor was he ever 
known to use camphor thereafter in any way, but always pro- 
tested that cider vinegar was a great deal better. 

To a lonesome little cabin on the banks of one of the West- 
ern rivers Richard Claverel took his fair, sad bride, for shortly 
after their flight they had learned its needlessness, and were 
married; but they were well aware that all the shame attach- 
ing to their first intention would cling to them still, and so were 
prevented from returning. The house they occupied was in- 
tended only as a temporary residence, until Richard should 
have time to look out a more desirable location in one of the 
many flourishing villages along the river bank. On this quest 
one day, he was overtaken by a sudden storm. No shelter was 
at hand, and, before reaching home, he became thoroughly 
drenched. The result was an attack of the prevalent disease 
of the country, chills and fever, which at length terminated in 
fever of the most malignant sort. | 

Very tenderly and patiently the young wife watched by his 
bedside, divining his unspoken wants, and ministering to them 
all. But with all she did, all she could do, his comforts were 
poor and scanty. How long and desolate the hours were, for 
no friend or neighbor came to give her advice or assistance, and 
at the close of the tenth day of his illness despair came down 
upon her heart. A dozen times that day a little bird had 
lighted in the window at the head of the bed, and trilled its 
merry song, and as often Caty had gone forth and frighted it 
away. She knew not why, but she felt a superstitious dread 
when she saw it, and wished it would not come, 


THE END OF THE ILL-STARRED. 269 


All day the sick man had only spoken to ask for water; but 
toward sunset he seemed to revive, complained of pain, and 
said the noise of the river disturbed him; and then, wandering 
deliriously, he besought Caty to go out and make it still. 
Wishing to humor all his wishes, she affected to go, and sitting 
down in the door of her cabin, she watched the sun set, and 
wept alone. The sun sunk lower and lower and was gone, and 
the shadows deepened and deepened till the woods about the 
cabin were quite dark. The bird sung no longer; but once 
‘Caty heard the beating of its wings against the pane, and 
groaned aloud. 

The pale moon struggled up through the tree-tops, and the 
thousand lamps of the fire-flies shone along the banks of the 
gloomy river—the river that went moaning down the darkness 
in spite of the oft-repeated prayer of the dying man that it 
would be still. 

“It is like a voice reproaching me,” he said, “ for what I can- 
not help. Am I to blame for the evil star that has ruled my 
destiny ? Be still, Oh river, be still, and let me sleep!” But 
the river went moaning through the darkness all the same. The 
moon rose higher and higher through the window and across 
the floor, and over the hushed sleeper fell the still, cold light 
The moaning of the river had ceased to trouble him. 


270 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


THE SISTERS. 


Yzars agone, there lived in a humble dwelling, a little way 
from Clovernook, two little girls, neither beautiful nor yet 
inordinately plain. ‘They were sisters, loving each other with 
a love that was more than love; but they were not, as might 
be supposed, the only children of their parents. Not precisely 
alike in their disposition, though perhaps the better mated on 
that very account, they were never from their first years sepa- 
rated for a single day. In the woods and the orchards, on the 
hills, out in the meadows, and at school, they were still to- 
gether. The name of the younger was Ellie, that of the elder, 
Rebecca. Ellie was gentle and sad, sad even in childhood, but 
years, and the weight of sorrow that fell from them, weighed 
down her heart, so that a calm but constant melancholy veiled 
the sunshine of her life. The calmness arose not so much from 
a clear perception of the great purposes God has about our wo, 
as from that worst round which humanity ever fills—apathy, 
indifference to the chill and the warmth, the flower and the 
frost. But let me not anticipate. Rebecca had a less dreamy 
and poetic temperament, more firmness and strength of cha- 
racter, more cheerfulness and elasticity of disposition, so that 
the younger wound herself about her as a vine winds round a 
young and vigorous bole, or rested by her side as a daisy rests 
in the shadow of a broad tree. 

A thousand times have I seen them, long ago, their arms 
about each other, and their dark, heavy locks blown together 
by the wind. I remember a hill, half-covered with maples, 
where often in the summer times they sat, one with knitting or 
sewing—and this one was usually Ellie—and the other with a 


THE SISTERS. 271 


bocik, from which she read aloud, for she was fond of reading, 
and as soon as she could read at all, read well. Sometimes, 
indeed, she put aside her book and related long stories to her 
admiring and wondering sister, who as yet had learned to give 
no utterance to her mused thought. Sometimes her dark eyes 
filled with tears, as she heard these, to her, beautiful relations ; 
and she would say, mournfully, but half reproachfully, “I shall 
never do any thing half so well as you.” Then the elder a 
move away the tresses from the forehead of the younger, an 
kissing her many times, say, “Dear Ellie, you will be a poet ;” 
and so would coax her to read the verses she had written 
yester eve, or the last Sabbath. Creditable they were, no 
doubt, but love and an unschooled judgment exaggerated their 
merits; still, pleased, each with herself and the other, they to- 
ward sunset crossed the homeward meadows, as if they came 
in inspiration from the holiest mount of song. The home in 
which they lived was a little brown cottage, with no poetic 
surroundings, save the apple tree, that in wintertime creaked 
against the wall, and in summer blossomed and bore fruit 
against the windows, with some rose bushes that grew by the 
garden fence, and climbed through it and over it as they would. 
The chamber in which the sisters slept was low, and there was 
no ceiling beneath the roof, sq, often they lay awake listening to 
the fall of the rain—that beautiful music—they built castles in 
the clouds, and peopled them with the airy beings of their 
imagination. Stately chambers they built with pictured walls 
and elaborate ceilings, through which the patter of the rain, the 
unknown inspiration of their dreams, could not be heard. The 
days came soon enough, at least for one, when the light of set- 
ting suns was all the light she knew. 

They were strange children, unlike any others I ever met, 
wonderfully gifted, sensitive exceedingly, but of rustic parentage, 
and almost totally uneducated. They began very early to be 
dissatisfied, and to think that beyond their little world there 
was one full of sunshine and pleasure. They read eagerly all 
the books, of whatever nature they could seize upon; went 
apart from the others in the family, for there were children 
older and younger; and talked and dreamed. 


272 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


True, they were required to work when they were not at the 
school; but when the tasks of the morning were done, with 
sewing or knitting they went to the meadows or the orchard. 
Often have I seen them in a field of sweet clover sitting in 
the shade of a beautiful maple, just on the slope of a hill, 
washed at the base by a runnel of silvery water, along which 
grew a thick hedge of willows that hung their long, green 
ee almost to the stream’s surface. All the valley was 

ll of dandelions, now brightening out of slender stems, and 
now falling and drifting lightly away, as the grass perished, and 
the flowers of the grass. There were also many other flowers, 
little delicate wild flowers, some of them beautiful, and some 
of them very plain, as are children; but their names I do not 
even know, for I learned not the science, but only the beautiful 
worship of Flora, and pure worship has never much to do with 
names. Cattle grazed here and there, or lay in the cool um- 
brage of other trees; and sheep and lambs skipped over the 
hills, all making a quiet and lovely picture. 

This favorite haunt looked, on one side, toward the willow 
valley ; beyond which, dark and thick, stretched a long line of 
woods; and on the other, toward the road, on the opposite side 
of which, under clusters of locust and cedar, gleamed the white 
stones of the graveyard I have mentioned sometimes, and the 
cottage where died Mary Wildermings. 

“If you live longer than I, dear Ellie,” said Rebecca, one 
day, after they had been a long time silenf, “don’t let them 
bury me there.” 

Tears came to the eyes of the young girl, and putting her 
arms around the neck of her sister, she said, “ What makes you 
talk so? You will never die.” 

“Why not I?” 

“Because I love you,” said Ellie, “and no one I ever loved 
is dead.” 

It was a sad smile which came over the face of Rebecea and 
sighted up her dark eyes, as she answered, “ You will part away 
the thick boughs in yonder burial ground before long, Ellie, for 
I am sure they will lay me there, and you will read on a plain 
little headstone,— Rebecca Hadly, Jifteen years—and a few 


THE SISTERS. ; 273 


months and days, I don’t know precisely how many; but I 
shall die before I am sixteen. It will not be long,” she con-. 
tinued, as if thinking aloud, “I shall be fifteen in a few months.” 

“Do not talk so any more,” said Ellie, half crying, “let us 
go home, and I will give you my new apron that ‘mother made 
for me.” Rebecca did not rise, but with her hands folded 
together in her lap, and her eyes cast down, continued to sit on 
the grass in silence; while Ellie, picking the wild flowers, 
around her, made wreaths which she hung about her neck, and 
twined among her hair, prattling of a thousand things in order 
to make her sister forget that there was such a thing in the 
world as death. But the effort to forget kept the evil in 
remembrance, and like a dark cloud, it lay before her which- 
ever way she turned. 

That day passed, and another, and another, and though the 
sisters never talked of death any more, there lay thereafter on 
the hearts of both an oppression—the consciousness of thinking 
often of what the lips must not speak. 

In going to and returning from school, they always passed 
the little graveyard, when Ellie never failed to hurry by her 
sister, and to talk with more life and energy than was her cus- 
tom. The cheek of Rebecca was the fullest and reddest, her 
step the most elastic, and her spirit the most buoyant generally, 
yet, at times, there came over her an impenetrable gloom— 
haply the prophetic assurance of ultimate destiny. Under the 
subdued and more habitually melancholy temperament of Ellie, 
lay a substratum of energy that no one ever suspected—that, 
for years, she never suspected herself. 

One evening as they were returning from school—their long 
shadows stretching clear across the road—returning slowly, 
and talking of the schoolmaster, they were unexpectedly inter- 
rupted. | 

Troop after troop of noisy little urchins passed them by, 
tossing dinner baskets in the air, shuffling up the dust and getting 
each other’s “tag,” for they were in high glee—school had been 
dismissed an hour later than usual, and each one felt himself 
the bearer of a most important dispatch. Flushed and excited 
were they as they hurried past each other, eager to communi- 

i 


274 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


cate at home what they supposed would tell awfully against the 
master. 

“A pretty teacher,” said Bill Martin, a rough, bullying boy, 
“Td just like to have him keep us in this late again, and I’d 
show him!” With this exclamation he shook his stout fist in the 
air, as though in the face of a mortal enemy, and on bringing it 
down, turned it suddenly at a sharp angle, knocking off the hat 
of a quiet little boy of half his years—which feat being per- 
formed, he ran forward, raising, as he did so, a cloud of dust 
that prevented the frightened child from seeing in what direc- 
tion the hat was gone. He began to ery, on which Bill stopped 
and called out, “That’s a good fellow! ery on, and go home 
without your hat if you are amind to, and when you get there 
your father will whip you for losing it, and then you will have 
something to cry for.” This speech failing to produce the 
soothing effect he seemed to have expected, he ran to one side 
of the road, and climbing to the topmost rail of the fence, raised 
himself on tip-toe, and appearing to look far across the fields, 
said, “ Yes, I told you so, your father has heard you already, 
and I see him cutting a switch from the peach tree ; now he is 
looking to see if it’s a strong one; now he has put up his jack- 
knife, and now he is coming this way as fast as he can come— 
you had better be still, ery-baby, or he will beat you to death.” 
Having finished this salutary admonition, he jumped from the 
fence completely over the head of a little girl, who stood listen- 
ing near, and called out, “Boys, it’s pitch dark in the woods! 
who is with me to go back and give the old master a fight : I 
wish he would just dare to keep us in this way again !” 

Now the schoolmaster was not an old one by any means, but, 
on the contrary, quite young—certainly not more than five and 
twenty. Poor fellow! the children of his charge were, though 
sensible enough, rude and undisciplined, scarce half civilized, as 
it were, and little inclined to be studious. Their slow advances 
were all, by them, and too often by their parents, attributed to 
the inefficiency of the master. The general feeling against him 
had, on the evening referred to, broken out with uncommon 
vehemence, and promised, as most of the pupils hoped, his 
speedy ejectment. 


THE SISTERS. 215 


“ Let us walk slow,” said one, ‘and make it late as we can, 
for it’s as late as it can be any how.” 

“IT had cyphered away beyond where I am now long ago,” 
said another; “I don’t believe he knows how to cypher himself, 
and that’s the reason he puts me back all the time.” 

Thus the majority talked—outraged that the school had been 
dismissed a little later than usual—a result, in part, of their 
own neglected lessons—but they expected wisdom to flow into 
their understandings without any effort of their own, and if it 
did not, the teacher was of course a blockhead. 

Far behind the rest walked Rebecca and Ellie, talking of the 
master, too, but in a different vein. They seemed to loiter, for 
they had gone aside to recover the little boy’s hat, blown by 
the wind into the middle of a stubble field. Then, too, they 
were conversing more earnestly than usual, and so quite forgot 
that it was late. 

“Tam sure he is sick,” said Ellie, “and not to blame for 
keeping us a little late; he could not attend to the lessons, I 
know, he looked so pale, and kept coughing all the time.” 

“The first day I came, I thought he was so ugly,” she contin- 
ued; “didn’t you, Rebecca?” 

“Ugly! no, to my thinking, he was always handsome, and 
his voice is music.” 

Ellie laughed outright, and Rebecca, blushing at her own en- 
thusiasm, said, half angrily, “what do you laugh at? because 
I don’t think the schoolmaster as ugly as you do?” 

“Oh, don’t be vexed; I didn’t laugh at anything, and some- 
times in afternoons, when his cheeks grow red, I think him al- 
most beautiful. To-day, when he was reading in the Bible be- 
fore dismissing school, he looked so, and, Rebecca, he thinks 
you pretty, too.” 

“ No, Ellie, you are mistaken ; no one thinks me pretty, nor 
am J,” 

Mournfully as this was said, a smile came over her face 
which did make her really beautiful, as Ellie continued, “I saw 
him writing poetry to-day, and under pretence of asking some 
question, I went close to the desk to see what it was, and 


276 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


though I could not see that, I did see written over it, ‘ Zo Re- 
becca.’ ” 

“There are a great many Rebeccas in the world,” said the 
elder sister, ‘“‘and his poem, if he were really writing a poem, 
was probably to some friend.” 

‘“* Probably it was, for you are his friend.” 

“Well, Ellie, if you will have it so, I shall make him the 
hero of a story, such as J tell you, and read it on the last day, 
but what did he say to you after he spoke of putting you in 
French, to-day ?” 

“‘ Nothing, I guess; let me see—Oh, he asked me how old | 
was, and then he said, ‘Rebecca is two years older, yes, you 
must study French ’—that was all he said.” 

“JT wish, Ellie,” said Rebecca, after they had walked a little 
way in silence, ‘I wish we had shoes to wear to school.” 

“Oh, what a beautiful dog!” exclaimed Ellie, as one of the 
finest of his tribe passed her; “I wish he were mine.” 

“Do you really think him beautiful ?” asked a voice close 
at hand—not rudely, but with singular affability and sweetness. 
It was one of those voices which one instinctively recognises as 
belonging to a person of cultivated mind and manner; for in 
the voice there is, to my thinking, as much indication of charac- 
ter as in the countenance. 

The face of the young girl blushed crimson—she had never 
before found herself in such immediate contact with one so evi- 
dently her superior, in position and education, and it was not 
without hesitation and almost painful embarrassment that she 
replied, “ Yes, sir, I think him very pretty.” 

Probably seeing her confusion, the gentleman did his best to 
make amends, continuing to converse in an easy way of such 
things as he naturally supposed her to be most familiar with 
—the neighborhood, the characters of the people, the produc- 
tive qualities of the land,and soon. Poor Ellie, she felt that she 
stammered—appeared awkward—and this consciousness only 
heightened her native rusticity. She could not say what she 
knew half so well as to any one in whose eyes the effect she 
produced was indifferent to her. She wished, much as she 
wanted him to perceive that she knew more than she seemed 


THE SISTERS. 277 


to know, that he would walk on, talk to Rebecca, do anything, 
in short, but walk slowly and talk to her. 

The elder sister had taken no part in the conversation; no 
question had been especially addressed to her, and her thoughts 
not being such as she could give expression to, she did not care 
to talk at all. 

When, however, the stranger said, “ Your teacher—what is 
his name? for you have been to school, as I guess,” she looked 
up with interest, and as Ellie hesitated, as though that were 
a question demanding a reply from her, she did reply, and the 
stranger continued interrogatively, _ 


‘¢ And still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew !” 


Rebecca made no answer. The gentleman had made no fa- 
vorable impression on her mind, and it was all in vain that he 
added, “I shall be happy to make his acquaintance.” 

There was .perhaps a little sarcasm in the tone, as Rebecca 
said, “And he cannot be otherwise than happy.” Whether there 
was or not, the stranger evidently thought so, for he turned to 
Ellie, and reverting to their previous conversation, said, “IT am 
glad, my little friend, to hear so good an account of the people 
and the country hereabout, inasmuch as I think of pitching my 
tent under some of these hills, and an acquaintance so infor- 
mally begun, on my part, will, I hope, result in our friendship. 
We shall be amiable neighbors, I am sure,” he added, rather to 
Ellie, who, unaccustomed to such civilities, could think of noth- 
ing to say in reply, but looking across the field, as though sud- 
denly absorbed in the beauties of the landscape, she scarcely 
saw the polite inclination, or heard the “ Good evening, young 
ladies,” with which, the gentleman, mending his pace, was soon 
too far away to hear them. 

“JT wonder,” said Rebecca, at last, for neither of the sisters 
spoke for some time, “I wonder if tea will be ready ?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Ellie, adding presently, “ how 
much I wish we had shoes.” 


t> 
-T 
oo 


OUR, NEIGHBORHOOD. 


THE REMORSE OF WILLIAM MARTIN. 


Tux light of the long blue summer twinkled along the hills ; 
the trees, in full leaf, had lost the first freshness and gloss of 
spring; heats held the drowsy winds in leash; the birds sang 
less and less gaily, and clouds of yellow butterflies hovered 
over the beds of streams that had gathered their lengths of 
silver waves into dull stagnant pools. The reaping was done, 
and the broad blades of the corn-fields rustled together now 
and then, indicating the ripe ears and coming frosts. Autumn 
yet hesitated on the borders of beauty for the blackening of the 
flower-stalks, to twist in with his crown of golden-stemmed 
wheat, left long ago, by the gleaners, shining along the stubble- 
fields. Among the apple-boughs, the light silvery net of the 
spider hung all day unbroken. It was the still hazy time preced- 
ing that “when the dull rain begins at shut of eve.” 

The school had gone on, with the interruption of a day occa- 
sionally, when the master was less well than usual, till within two 
weeks of its close. “Just let him dare to show himself again,” 
Bill Martin never failed to say, when such holidays recurred, 
“and Pll twist him round my little finger.” And the whole 
school heaped execrations on the head of the unfortunate young 
man, who, hopeless and friendless, struggled and labored on, 
“sick for home.” A great deal of unnecessary pain and vexa- 
tion his pupils gave him, for the strong are apt to despise the 
weak ; sometimes they hid away his favorite books, so that at 
noon ths solace they might have afforded, as he lay in the 
shade, thinking and coughing, was denied iii sometimes they 
slily clipped a button from his threadbare anit on which occa- 
sions the mirth became irrepressible ; and sometimes they pur- 


THE REMORSE OF WILLIAM MARTIN. 279 


posely upset his dinner basket—emptying the contents on the 
dusty floor. There was no end to their mischievous and some- 
times cruel practices upon his weakness and apathy. 

“JT hope you are very well to-day,” said Ellie Hadly one 
morning, as she presented him a sweet little bouquet of wild 
flowers, gathered on her way to school. 

The feelings of the earth are not easily overcome, and he 
answered, smiling gaily, “I do feel well, just now—very well,” 
and then he added, as he turned them tound and round in admi 
ration, “ Did you gather them all, Ellie?” Had he glanced at 
Rebecca, there could have been no need of other reply ; she 
was intent onthe morning lesson, but her cheek, I fancy, was 
not so crimsoned by any thing she read. 

That day, life, as it were, sent its ebbing currents back ; he 
talked of the next session, the next year; how much his pupilé 
would have learned by such and such a time, and how proud 
he should be of them; told them of the little presents he had 
prepared for them the last day of the term; all, he said, would 
merit them, he was sure. 

“Then,” said Rebecca, timidly raising her eyes to his, “ you 
will not go back to your home on the mountain?” “Such had 
been my intention,” he said, “if I grew worse—but I shall 
not—with the cool airs I shall grow stronger.” A cough inter- 
rupted him, and he added, “Perhaps I shall go back;” and 
after a pause, “and if I do, you will get a better (eae than I 
have been, I hope, but you will not get one that will like you 
better, for,” he said, “you are all very dear to me.” “ And I 
am sure we all love you,” said Ellie, “don’t we, Rebecca?” 
But Rebecca asked something about the grammar lesson, and 
did not reply to the question at all. ; 

The school-house was a little wooden building, unsheltered 
- with trees, standing right against the road-side. Many trees 
had been planted ; none of them, however, were for any length 
of time suffered to grow, and Bill Martin was accused of 
knowing more of the causes of their death than he cared to say. 
At the beginning of the present session the poor teacher, une- 
qual to so hard a task, had one enervating day labored hard to 
plant some thrifty locusts and maples before the windows, but 


280 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


they never came into leaf, and were soon quite withered and 
_ dead. “I think,” said the master afterward, as he saw Bill 
Martin cutting into one of the trunks to see if it were quite 
“Wad, “I think this soil is not adapted to the growth of trees.” 
“No, sir,” said Bill, with ill-suppressed laughter, “no tree what: 
somever could grow here.” So saying, he ran away to tell the 
other boys that their teacher was a bigger fool than he thought 
he was. 

A little way from the school-house, and on the opposite side 
of the road, was a pleasant beech grove, where the boys played 
bass ball, and where the girls carried disused benches and 
see-sawed over fallen logs. Here, too, the master spent the 
noon times with his books. The day on which he had promised 
the presents, he took his book, as usual, and sought a favorite 
retreat under the low-drooping boughs of an elm, and as he 
half-reclined, he arranged between the leaves of his volume the 
flowers which Ellie had given him. Dreams, vague and un- 
shapen, but of a soothing nature, trembled about. his heart as 
did the shadows upon the grass. “ These flowers,” he thought, 
‘withered away from their stalks in the chilly airs last year— 
all winter the bleak snows were over them—and the winds 
moaned about their graves ; but the spring came back, and the 
stocks shot up fresh and green, and hung their buds and flowers, 
pale and gold and red, in the bright sunshine. So perhaps the 
sap of my nature has flowed into my heart, as the juice of the 
plant to the root, and one shower of the tears of sympathy, 
one fall of the sunshine of smiles, might roll it back again, and 
I grow strong and well. If I should—and I am sure I shall: I 
feel stronger to-day than for months.” So thinking, he arose 
and essayed a trial of his powers ona green bole, standing close 
at hand. It was not thicker than his wrist at the root, much 
less toward the top, and catching at the boughs he drew it down 
a little, but with all his efforts he could not bend it to his will. 
‘Let me help you,” said Bill Martin, rushing forward—like a 
withe it bent before him, but he suddenly and purposely loosed 
his hold, and the rebound was right in the face of the master. 
He staggered back a little, put his hands to his face, and then sunk 
on the grass, the blood trickling through his thin white fingers. 


THE REMORSE OF WILLIAM MARTIN. 281 


“Are you hurt—are you hurt?” exclaimed the boy, now 
really, and for the first time in his life, terribly frightened: “I 
. didn’t mean to do it; I didn’t mean to do it ;” and he repeated 
this over and over, as some excuse to his conscience. 

“ Oh, William,” answered the teacher at last, looking at the 
boy, or trying to look at him, “I cannot see any thing—I am 
blind; but never mind,” he added, very sorrowfully, and know- 
ing by the boy’s interjections and sobs how much he was 
alarmed, “ Never mind, I could not have seen much longer at 
any rate. Give me your hand and lead me to the school-house ;” 
but the boy could not look on what he had done, and ran hastily 
away. Presently he stopped, and pulled up some grass, which 
he fed to a drove of starving pigs that he had pelted a thousand 
times; then, seeing a cow standing in the sunshine, with a board 
before her eyes, which he himself had tied there an hour before, 
he ran to her, and taking it off, dashed it against a stone, and 
split it to fragments. 

“ What is the matter, William?” Rebecca Hadly said, as 
she returned slowly, and with an open book before her, toward 
the school-house, for the occupation was an extraordinary one 
for him, and she saw, too, his agitation, and the traces of recent 
tears. 

“There is nothing the matter with me!” and taking his slate- 
pencil from his pocket, he began scratching straight marks on 
the fence: “ but the school-master is sick—I expect may be he 
is—I don’t know.” ’ 

“ What makes you think he is sick ?” 

“1 don’t know,” said the boy, scarce intelligibly, “I don’t 
know as it’s him, but somebody lies under a tree down here in 
the woods, and I expect he is sick. I don’t know as it’s the 
master; and I don’t know as he is sick.” 

The girl closed her book and walked fast in the direction 
which he indicated, having urged him in vain to go with her. 
He prest his face against the fence-rails a moment, gazing after 
the girl,-and then turning away, sat down by the road side, 
taking up his hands full of dust, sifting it from one to another, 
and wondering whether, if a boy accidentally makes a man 
blind, they would take him up and put him in jail. 


282 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“Oh, master!” exclaimed Rebecca as, drawing near, she saw 
his awful plight, “what is the matter? and how did it chance? 
Dear, dear master, you are badly hurt !” and stooping over ‘him, 
she pushed back his disordered hair, and wiped his face with 
her handkerchief. “ Rebecca, dear Rebecca,” he said at last, 
and putting his arm about her, he drew her to his side; and 
half-shrinking from him, she suffered his last and first embrace, 

Thoughts and feelings long in the hearts of both, unuttered 
but comprehended, thus sadly found a voice. An hour before, 
and they could not have spoken one tithe of what they now 
said very calmly. The flowers of their hope were cold gray 
ashes now, and the crimson that would have sprung to their 
cheeks was beaten down with tears. How the breath of afflic- 
tion sweeps away the barriers that divided us, and bears us full 
into the arms of love! 

Now that the light was folded away, as a mantle, and the 
outer vision darkened for ever, the inner seemed correspond- 
ingly quickened ; and the truth, felt vaguely before, was clearly 
perceived. As we sometimes feel the working of the mole 
beneath our feet, the young, man sorrowful, but resigned, felt 
the turning of the furrows of death. He had, perhaps, after the 
first passionate burst of half-rebellious sorrow was hushed, 
never been so happy as now. As the sun grows large and 
bright among the sunset clouds, so his soul, in calmness and 
trustfulness of faith, grew large among the shadows of death. 

“Life has been a weary journey to me,” he said, “for I 
walked alone, and with no sweet human hope to beckon me 
forward ; the way was long and rough, but now that I have met 
you, Rebecca, though your soft hand is only in time to open for 
me the door of death, I am ready and glad to go in.” 

Rebecca was almost a child, but her heart had outgrown her 
years; she knew that the gay blossoms of life must sooner or 
later whiten in the frost; and when it fell, though heavier and 
earlier than she expected, she loosened her arms away from her 
idol, and took beneath them the cross. It is hard to see 
gathered the shock of corn fully ripe; but when the green stalk 
that might have borne much fruit is cut down, how sadly we 
strike hands with the reaper. 


THE REMORSE OF WILLIAM MARTIN. 283 


The school-house with the withered trees before it had been 
shut for ten days; very lonesome it looked, with no eager faces 
peering out at the windows, even when the coach with its four 
gray horses rattled by. “Is Billy at home?” said the voice of 
a strange young man, reining in his horse, which he rode 
without any saddle, at the gate of Mr. Martin. Billy was in 
the garden gathering some dead pea vines; and hearing the 
inquiry, he crouched trembling and silent beneath them, for he 
verily believed he was to be arrested. ‘To his further conster- 
nation, Mrs. Martin, who was shaking the crumbs from the 
table-cloth at the door, answered “ Yes, sir, he is at home ;” 
and folding the cloth, as she looked east and west, she called in 
a voice that wakened the distant echoes, “ Bill-ee, Bill-ee, Billy 
Martin,” all in vain. Then she walked slowly toward the man, 
‘and Billy heard them say something which he could not under- 
stand, but he was sure he caught the word school-master, I 
need not attempt to describe his sufferings; it was long after 
night, when he ventured to creep out and steal toward the 
house; he listened at the door, but all was still; “Perhaps,” 
he thought, “they are waiting for me, and ifI go in, they will 
catch me and tie me up with a rope.” Then he crept back again 
into the dark. Finally he came once more, and putting his hand 
through a broken pane in the window, drew the curtain softly 
aside. There sat his mother, rocking the cradle with one foot 
and finishing a pair of new blue trowsers for him, Could they 
be to wear to prison?—surely not. Perhaps his father was 
going to take him to Mr. Smith’s vendue, for Mr. Smith was 
going to sell his ploughs and harrows and fanning-mill and 
sheep; together with six milch cows, and all his household 
furniture, and move to Wisconsin. How he wished he was 
going with him. If he could only go to the vendue—and what 
else were the blue trowsers for—he would ask Mr. Smith to 
take him, and when he got there, he would call himself William 


Smith, and nobody would ever know how he hurt the school- 
master, 


At this happy thought he boldly, and at once, opened the 
door. His mother asked him where he had been, and on his 
replying, “Just in the garden pulling up the pea vines,” quietly 


284 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


resumed her work. He ‘did not dare to ask what he so much 
wished to know; but sitting down on the floor with his eyes 
wide open, watched the progress of the blue trowsers. When- 
ever his mother told him it was time little boys were in bed, he 
replied that, “He didn’t see why he couldn’t get sleepy to- 
night.” | 

At last he said, fearfully, “Is father going to the vendue to- 
morrow?” His mother answered, querulously that, “She did 
not know,” adding as it were to herself, “I should like to know 
how the feather beds will go; but when all is said and done, 
I expect I shall never have a spare bed;” and, sighing, she 
folded up the blue trowsers. 

“Come, come,” said she, looking sternly at.Billy, whose eyes 
were still wide open, “it’s high time little boys were in bed ;” 
and taking him by the ear, she led him the length of her arm 
toward the door of his chamber. Poor boy! it was a long 
time before he slept. The next morning as he sat on the wood- 
pile intently watching the movements of his father, to see if he 
were likely to go to the vendue, his mother, with a towel 
pinned around her waist by way of apron, came to the door 
and called him in. His blue trowsers, finished now, together 
with his best shirt, were hanging over a chair before the fire, 
and his mother, pointing to them, said, “Now go and wash 
your face and hands as clean as ever you can, and then come 
and put on these.” He hastened to obey; but his hopes fell 
when he heard her say, “Bad boy, you don’t deserve to have 
new clothes.” He did not know whether this implied a general 
rebuke for the whole tenor of his life, or whether she had espe- 
cial reference to his last crowning sin. The fear of being sent 
to prison came back upon him ; and with sad misgivings, he did 
as he was bidden. When he was drest, he was obliged to wait 
and wipe away the tears more than once, before going back 
into the presence of his mother; nor was he much relieved 
when she told him to put on his hat and go and sce the school- 
master. “ What for?’ he inquired, sinking into a seat. “I 
don’t know what for—because I tell you to—and because he 
took the pains to send for you, you naughty boy, you; you 
don’t deserve to go.” In vain the boy said he did not want 


THE REMORSE OF WILLIAM MARTIN. 285 


to go; he was told he might go or take a whipping; and after 
hanging back for a time, he set out at a siiail’s pace. 

It was a lonesome old farm-house, with a broad meadow and 
a strip of woods between it and the public road, where the mas- 
ter’s lodgings were. An old horse-mill stood near it, where 
such of the neighbors as did not go to uncle Hillhouse’s mill, 
for the distance of several miles around, had their meal and 
flour made; and its dull, homesick rumble was never still. 
The yard about the house was enclosed with a strong post and 
rail fence, to which, when Master William Martin came in 
sight, some threg or four horses were attached. A woman, tall 
and dark, with black sunken eyes, over which drooped purple 
lids, with brown.hair, streaked with gray, combed straight back 
from her forehead, and a thin, care-worn face, was standing on 
a stone pavement near the door, churning. “ Come in, little 
boy,” she said, “come in—he won’t hurt you !” as the gate 
creaked on its hinges, and, looking up, she saw him hesitating, 
afraid of the great watch-dog that, couchant half-way between 
the door and the gate, raised himself on his forepaws, growling 
furiously. 

She stopped her work for a moment, and raising the “dasher” 
looked at it intently to see if the butter were likely to “ come,” 
and then with an expression half weariness and irritation, half 
kindness and sorrow, showed him through a wide, dark hall, 
the floor of which was partly covered with some strips of coarse 
carpet, and up a steep stair, the steps of ash wood, and scoured 
exceedingly white. At the first landing, she paused, and said 
to the trembling visitor, in a whisper, “ He’s dreadfully chang- 
ed; I don’t expect you would know him hardly, he has suffered 
every thing amost ;” she then added, “the doctor put great 
blisters on his arms and the back of his neck about midnight, 
though it appeared like he didn’t want it done, for he kept say- 
ing all the while, ‘Oh, it will do no good.’” She softly pushed 

open the door, and going up to the bedside, took the limber 
white hand from off the coverlid in her own, and said in an en- 
couraging and cheerful tone, “Here is a little boy come to see 
you.” : 

“T want water, give me just a little,” said the sick man. 


286 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“No, the doctor says you must not have it; when you get 

_ well, [ will bring yow a big pitcher full, right out of the spring 
—that great big white pitcher with the purple roses on it, ané 
you may have just as much as you want.” 

“Can I not have it now, or in an hour?” he asked, beseech- 
ingly ; but the woman was back at her churning. 

He suppressed the moan that rose to his lips, and taking 
from an earthern pot covered with a saucer, which stood on a 
table within reach, a drink of herb tea, resumed the smile of 
patient quiet habitual to him. The room was large, with a low 
ceiling, scantily furnished with two or three unpainted chairs, a 
breakfast table from which one leaf was broken, a walnut 
bureau and a small looking-glass in a frame of carved oak, 
Beneath this hung the only ornaments of the room, the pale 
checky skin of a snake, a wand of bright feathers, and a pin- 
cushion, made of deep yellow silk, and to represent an orange. 

The paper curtains, on which brown ships and green trees 
were intermingled, were down over the windows, making a kind 
of twilight in the room. The window near the head of the bed 
was a little open, but a sickening smell of medicine pervaded 
the atmosphere, and vials and papers were strewed over the 
mantel. 

The schoolmaster had requested that his pupils might all 
come and see him, and most of them were there before Bill. 
Half afraid and still, they sat or stood about the room, but as 
far from the bed-side as they well could. Only Ellie, leaning 
over the pillow, took the long damp locks in her hands, and 
wiped the perspiration from the brow, sadly, silently—she began 
to fear that one she loved could die. 

A little bird, beating its wings for a moment against the 
pane, flew into the room, and the children, diverted from their 
fear, began to try to catch it, talking and laughing out as they 
did so. At the familiar sounds, a smile came over the master’s 
face, but faded off as he said, “There is one voice I do not 
hear.” [Ellie understood him and said, “She will come to- 
night.” ‘To-night, Ellie,” he said, repeating her words, “ to- 
night—there will never be any more morning for me.” 

Presently he asked to be raised on his pillows, and removing 


THE REMORSE OF WILLIAM MARTIN. 287 


the shade from his eyes, for he could see a little, took a parcel 

from the table, untied it, and displayed a great many little 
volumes, in bright binding and with gilt edges. Calling the chil- 
dren around him, he said, “These, my little friends, are for you; I 
shall never teach you any more, for I am going a long, lone- 
some journey, but they will make you wise beyond my poor 
human wisdom. You have all loved me, and [ am sorry to go 
away and leave you,” and, one by one, he laid his thin hand 
upon their heads, and asked God’s blessing to come down and 
brighten his own. Very brightly the sun shone without. A 
bridal train swept along the distant road, and was gone, the 
woman, weary and worn, sat down in the shadow to rest, and 
in the dark chamber the children sobbed their farewells. 

The shining arrows of sunset were lodging among the boughs 
of the eastern wood; the weary laborer plodded home; the 
cattle gathered about sheds and stackyards; and the busy 
housewife plied her evening care. One sound—the rumble of 
the mil]—was over all. 

Under the open window of his dark chamber, through which 
the chill air came and went, there knelt a young but heavy- 
hearted girl, her fallen hair swept against the face, and her lips 

touched the lips of the dead. Knocking at the gateway of 
peace, eager for the waters of life, there was another soul. 


288 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


MRS. GREY’S TWO VISITS. 


ee Le SE ee See a ee eT 


Wuen we look abroad in the world, there seems no ebbing © 


in the great wave of humanity ; and while our own hearth-light 


falls on no pale cheek and no tear-dimmed eye; while the little 


circle, of which we are a part, is unbroken; while the music, 


sounding from heart to heart, has never been muffled by the — 


shroud-folds, it is not possible to conceive the aching and the 
longing that come upon the soul when an accustomed smile has 
darkened away, and how one little mound may throw a shadow 
over the whole wide world. If there be any sorrow for which 


the oil of gladness holds no chrism of healing—sorrow, making | 
life a blank and eternity unsubstantial, it is that which comes — 


over us when, for the first time in our lives, we lay back the 
winding-sheet, and give our kisses, wild and passionate, to the 


pale, unanswering dust. God over all, blessed forever! put — 


the arms of Thy loving kindness about the many children of 


affliction, leaning away from the sunshine to the cold comfort — 


of the grave. 


The winter, with its chill winds and leafless trees, shining — 


icicles and capricious sunshine, was gone; the blue birds were 


building, and the lilacs budding through; here and there, along — 
the northern sides of the hills, and close under the shelter of — 
the fence, there was a ridge of snow, hard and sleety; and the — 
young lambs, their fleeces just twisting into curl, skipped about — 
their dams, and nibbled the tender grasses. The daffodils Were ; 
all bright by the doors of the cottages, and the flags had sent — 


up from the long dead grass their broad green blades; while 


the housewives, their aprons full of seeds, made plans for the | 


new beds in the garden. 


5 
a 


MRS. GREY’S TWO VISITS. 289 


Rebecca and Ellie were in the woods gathering wild flowers ; 
the shutters of the school house were swung open; a new 
teacher had come. ‘“ Where are you going, Billy? come back 
with you; it’s after school time now, and here you go with a 
spade over your shoulder, as tho’ you meant to dig the world 
to pieces.” Billy stopped, hung down his head a little, but 
said nothing; and Mrs. Martin continued, as though the total 
depravity of the child compelled her to say a few words more. 
“T do wonder if anybody ever had such a boy? I’ve tried, and 
ve tried, till I’ve got no patience left, to make you like other 
children, but it’s all no use; and I'll have to tell your father, 
and let him take you in hand, and see if whipping will do any 
good. Didn’t I tell you, as soon as you had eaten your break- 
fast, and fed the pigs, and gone over to Mr. Tompkins’s, and 
taken home the butter-print, to go right straight to school; and 
here you are with a spade over your shoulder, and I don’t sup- 
pose you know yourself what you want to do with it.” Here 
she advanced to Billy, and taking him by the collar, gave him 
a hearty shake, saying, “Is this the way you expect to pay 
your father and me for all we have done for you? Pretty 
way, isn’t it? I was going to let you go to town Saturday, 
and buy you a new straw hat; but now I guess you may stay 
at home and carry a spade about on your shoulder; for you 
don’t deserve any new hat. Now go and feed the pigs, and 
then go over to Mr. Tompkins’s and take home the print, and 
ask Mrs. Tompkins if she will exchange a setting of eggs with 
mother; and don’t stay an hour—mind that.” 

Billy put down his spade and said that he had fed the pigs, 
and been to Mr. Tompkins’s; and that he was then starting to 
school. 

“Ts it possible,” said the woman; but so far from giving him 
any praise or encouragement, she added, “well, it’s the first 
time in your life you ever did any thing right, and I expect 
it will be the last—go to school.” 

Billy gave one lingering look at the spade, and departed, 
thinking to himself, that if he ever grew big he would go away 
off to some strange country, where his mother would never 


hear of him any more. 
‘c 13 


290 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Thus, moodily reflecting, he plodded slowly toward the 
school-house; he had not, however, proceeded far, when he 
was overtaken by a gentleman driving in a light carriage, and 
alone. He reined in his horse, a glossy, black, and beautiful 
animal, and said in a familiar, good natured way, “ Won’t you 
get in and ride, my little friend?” Billy was not used to being 
spoken to in so kind a tone; and the “Thank you” rose 
naturally to his lips, as he climbed in. 

All the way the strange gentleman talked to him of a great 
many different things, drawing out what he had learned, and 
imparting knowledge, without seeming to do so, of other things 
of which he knew nothing, so that when the carriage stopped, 
and he got out in front of the school-house, he felt as though he 
were a boy of some importance. “I don’t care,” he thought, 
“‘ whether the teacher is a good teacher or not, I shall go through 
the geography and arithmetic this quarter, at any rate, for the 
man said I could, and I can.” 

“Bright lad, naturally, but badly trained, badly trained— 
pity,” cogitated the strange gentleman, as he drove on. 

Rebecca and Ellie had gathered their laps full of flowers, and, 
by a mossy brookside, where the clear cold water trickled over 
the blue flagstonés, sat down together—one braiding her flowers 
into wreaths, enraptured with their beauty, and light of heart 
—the other suffering hers to wither on the ground at her side, 
while, locking her hands over her knees, she gazed mutely and 
steadfastly into the stream; the little birds flitted among the 
boughs, only as yet fringed with verdure, filling all the woods 
with song and chirp and twitter; the oxen ploughed up and 
down the hills; and the bees flew hummingly out from their 
hives. All day long they sat together there amid the sweet 
music of nature. Gradually the sad smile brightened on the 
lip of Rebecca, for Ellie did not cease her efforts to turn her 
thoughts into sunny and hopeful ways. The next week they 
were going to the city, where they had never been but once in 
their lives, so that it was of course regarded by them as a most 
important and interesting event. New dresses they were tc 
have, and bonnets, besides some other things which I have for 
gotten, and they talked a great deal as to what styles and colors 


MRS. GREY’S TWO VISITS. — 291 


would be pretty and becoming, and then they talked of where 
they should go and what they should do in the new costume, 
The sun was burning among the western tree-tops, when they 
arose, and crossing a meadow where their way might be trailed 
through the green undulations of the grass, struck into the 
main road about the distance of half a mile from their home, 
and directly opposite the lonesome graveyard. Attracted by 
some sort of noise within it, they drew near, but their voices 
silenced the movements of the person, so that they began to 
think they had misapprehended what was perhaps after all but. 
the stirring of the leaves, and were about turning away, when, 
leaning on his spade, and parting the thick briers through which 
he cautiously peered, they beheld the black eyes and pale face 
of Billy Martin. He was filling up the schoolmaster’s grave, 
Ere they reached home, a carriage passed them, the same that 
had taken Billy to school in the morning, whence a gentleman, 
smiling recognition, gave the salutation of the evening. Ellie, 
almost trembling with confusion, dropt half her flowers, but 
Rebecca said calmly, “That is the same person that we saw 
coming from school,” but her thoughts flowed back to the old 
time; but from the first moment of seeing him a deep interest 
had been created in the mind of the younger sister, and she 
continued musing as to who he was, and whether he lived in the 
neighborhood, until they reached the gate. 

“Come, girls,” said Mrs. Hadly, who was just coming from 
the smoke-house, with a plate of fresh-cut ham, “I want you to 
help me a little about supper.” “Who is at our house 2” in- 
quired Ellie, in an eager tone, and coming close to her mother 
—for to have a visitor at tea was a great event. 

Mrs. Hadly said it was Mrs. Grey, and added, “ What will 
she think of you great girls, almost women, if she sees you 
with your hands full of playthings? Throw away your flowers, 
and go in and set the’tablé.” At this moment, the vision of a 
white muslin cap, profusely trimmed with black ribbon, ap- 
peared at the window, together with a little brown withered 
hand, checked with blue knotty veins, which flew briskly and 
vigorously up and down—for Mrs. Grey was an industrious 
woman, and never thought of sitting down, at home or abroad, 


292 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


without some sort of work. She never forgot that “Satan finds 
some mischief still for idle hands to do,” and often repeated it, 
though her temperament was not at all poetical. 

Mrs. Hadly, having got her supper “under way,” left it to 
the care of the girls, and taking a pair of woollen socks, one of 
many that garnished a frame attached to the ceiling, she sat 
down close beside her neighbor, whose work, previously to 
commencing her own, she examined. It was a child’s apron, 
made of bird’s-eye diaper, and in a style which Mrs. Hadly had 
never seen, and holding it up admiringly, she said, “Now do 
tell me where you got this pretty pattern.” 

“Do you like it? I thought it would look pretty for a 
change, and the way I came by the pattern was this: The new 
folks that have moved into the old Graham place send over to 
our house a good deal for things. The very first night they got 
there they sent for a number of things. Mr. Hampsted didn’t 
come himself, I suppose may be he was too proud, but I don’t 
know as I ought to say that either—likely he had something to 
do at home—moving makes busy times, you know—at any 
rate, he sent a black man, with good sized basket, and I 
couldn’t tell you what all he got! Let me see—in the first 
place he wanted to buy a loaf of bread—I did think that was 
queer, but I couldn’t think of making any charge for that—then 
he got two pounds of butter, and a ham and a dozen eggs, and 
a quart of milk, and a few potaters he got of Grey, I don’t 
know just how many, but the strangest was, he put them right 
into a white Irish linen piller-case.” And Mrs. Grey continued 
to say that they must be very extravagant people, for that the 
black man never asked the price of any thing till he got the 
passel in his basket, and that he then took out his puss, and 
paid her just what she asked, adding that for such trifling things 
as bread and milk she had no heart to charge any thing. © 

“T didn’t know,” said Mrs. Hadly, for both parties had quite 
forgotten the apron pattern, “that there were new folks in the 
Graham place.” 

“Ts it possible? They have been there four or five days, — 
and you not heard of it? Why, I saw Mr. Hampsted go along | 
here not five minutes ago—you must have seen him, gals.” 


MRS. GREY’S TWO VISITS. 293 


“The gentleman who just passed, in the carriage, lriving the 
black horse?” said Ellie, “ | saw him—and he lives near by, it 
seems ;” and though she scarcely knew why, Ellie was glad he , 
did live near by. 

“TI expect, from all accounts,” continued Mrs. Grey, “ they 
won’t have much to do with plain farmer folks like us, for Mrs. 
Hamstid, they say, keeps dressed up all the time reading 
books, and don’t even nuss her own baby. As I was coming 
here to-day I saw her in the garden, with a bonnet on nice 
enough to wear to meeting, and I noticed that her hands looked 
just like snow.” And Mrs. Grey finished with an “ Ah, well! 
every one to their notion!” or seemed to finish so, but she pre- 
sently added, “It looks strange to me to see three gals in 
one house—a chambermaid and nuss and cook, and they 
say they call them all sarvents; dear me, what will the world 
come to? I tell my man we shall have to make a vandue like 
Mr. Smith, and go off to a new country, there are so many 
town folks coming about with their man sarvents and maid 
sarvents, and fine carpets and furniture.” 

Poor Mrs. Grey! she was an old-fashioned woman, and her 
preconceived notions would not readily yield to modern in- 
novations. She sighed, and by way of diverting her mind, 
Mrs. Hadly said, “ What did you say the name was?” 

“‘T don’t know as I can make sartain,” said Mrs. Grey, “I 
understood the black man to call him Hampstead, and some 
call him Hampton, but for my part I guess the name is 
Hamstid.” 

Rebecea went out and in, and up and down the stairs, busy 
about the table, and paying little attention to this conversation, 
She was thinking of the schoolmaster and of Billy Martin, who, 
stealthily hidden among the briers, was filling up his grave. 
But Ellie managed to hear all that was said in reference to the 
strange gentleman, secretly hoping to herself that when she 
should have her new dress and bonnet, she would meet him 
again; “for,” she thought, “if I look better I shall act better, 
and I do not want him to think me a simple rustic, as he does 
now; and how can he think any thing else ?”’ 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Grey finished her apron and folded it away, 


294 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


quite forgetful of how she got the pattern; and clapping her 
hands playfully together in the face of little Lucey Hadly—who 
having come in from her playhouse in the weeds, where she 
had been all day alone, paused a little way from the visitor, and 
crossing her hands meekly behind her, regarded her attentively, 
but not rudely—said, “Is this my little girl?” Lucy, not much 
accustomed to strangers, made no reply; but with the long 
lashes dropping over her eyes, and a faint crimson breaking 
through her pale cheeks, stood silent. 

“Can’t you speak,” said her mother, “and tell Mrs. Grey 
what your name is ?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Grey, “she can’t speak—the cat has got her 
tongue! Poor little girl, she hasn’t got any name.” 

“Tam quite ashamed of you, my child,” said Mrs. Hadly, 
smoothing away the golden locks which the wind had blown 
into tangles. Wiping the tears with her little brown hand, the 
child turned away; her lips trembled, for she was sensitively 
alive to blame; and Mrs. Grey kindly drew her towards her, 
patted her cheek, and said, “I told a story, didn’t 1? for you 
have got a pretty name; and the cat hasn’t got your tongue 
either.” Lucy said “No;” and in proof showed her tongue to 
Mrs. Grey, who answered delightedly, “'That’s a little lady: 
I knew it!” She then unrolled the apron, and exhibited it to 
Lucy, and then she tried it on by way of pleasing her, and 
the large melancholy eyes of the child sparkled with pleasure, 
as nestling against the bosom of the kindly woman, she regard- 
ed herself admiringly. 

I called Mrs. Grey a kindly woman—such she was, though not 
always prudent; and leaning toward Mrs. Hadly, she said, 
“Is Re »’ she called the rest of the name so low that 
Lucy could not hear it, and added, “still moping and melan- 
choly about the”——-. Here she called a name again, but so 
low, that Lucy could not hear it any more than before. © 

Mrs. Hadly smiled as she answered that a child’s grief was 
not likely to be very durable; and though both the girls had 
loved their teacher very much, she believed, it was scarcely in 
the nature of things, that they should always mourn for him. 
Mrs. Hadly spoke sincerely, and according to the best of her 


MRS. GREY’S TWO VISITS. 295° 


knowledge; so her talkative friend continued —‘'Then you 
didn’t know how somebody went to see somebody after he was 
dead !” 

“Yes, she had liberty to do so.” 

* And did you know, too, how somebody left a present for 
somebody, and in that present a letter that nobody ever saw?” 

“Do youallude to the Bible—of which each of the pupils 
received a copy 2?” 

“Yes, I believe it was; but each of the pupils didn’t have a 
letter, did they ?” said Mrs. Grey. 

“A few words of admonition, and farewell—nothing more. 
I am sorry a different impression has gone abroad: it would 
grieve Rebecca to know it.” 

“Hush, hush!” said Mrs. Grey, “little folks have big ears, 
sometimes ;” and addressing herself to Lucy, she said, “ Run 
out, and show the girls what a pretty new apron you have 
got.” 

She then told Mrs. Hadly, that it was currently reported, 
that Rebecca and the schoolmaster were engaged to be mar- 
ried; that they were in the habit of meeting each other in the 
woods, by the school-house; and that Rebecca went to see him 
after he was dead, and wept and moaned at such a rate, that 
they heard her all over the house. Now, if all this had been 
true, there would have been no actual wrong in it; but not so 
thought Mrs. Hadly, viewing things, as she did, through the 
most severe and restricting media. Besides, the harmless lik- 
ing of the young persons had, in the mouths of village gossips, 
been made to assume an exaggerated and distorted form. It is 
a fault which many old, and some middle-aged persons fall into, 
to regard all innocent amusements in the young as indiscreet, 
and all approach toward love between the sexes as absolutely 
sinful, forgetful that they themselves were ever young and giddy, 
as they term it, forgetful that they ever loved and married, in all 
probability, whom they chose. Into this error Mrs. Hadly had 
fallen; and she resolved, that so flagrant a violation of what she 
considered propriety should not go unpunished. She was a 
woman of energy and decision, of severe and strict morality, 
regarding the dreamy and poetic dispositions of her children as 


\ 


296 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


great misfortunes; something worse in fact—something to be 
ashamed of. Little aid by encouragement did they receive 
from her in their juvenile efforts; indeed, she was scarcely 
aware of their existence. An uneducated, plain, practical 
woman, she had no idea of genius or its uses. More discreet 
than her neighbor, she said nothing of her convictions or deter- 
mination, but for a week thereafter pondered them in her heart. 

And now the elder portion of the family were at tea; the sun 
was gone down, the chickens to their roost, and Ellie and 
Rebecca to the cow yard, where, while filling their pails, they 
talked much more gaily than usual: a little of the new neigh- 
bors, a little of Mrs. Grey and her gossip, and a little of going 
to town, and their new dresses and bonnets. While thus 
engaged, Lucy, in her new apron, came timidly near, half proud, 
and half ashamed. “ Whose little girl is this?” said Rebecca, 
pretending not to know her; “it’s Mr. Johnson’s little girl, I 
guess; yes it is. How do you do, little Sally Johnson 2” 
Lucy laughed, saying, that her name was not Sally, but Lucey. 
“Oh yes; I see now,” said Rebecca, reaching one arm toward 
her, “it’s nobody but our Lucy with a new apron on.” 

“Won't you get me an apron like this when you go to 
town?” and she smoothed it with her hand, regarding it with 
unspeakable admiration. 

Poor little girl! she never before had seen such an apron; 
never possessed one in her life; but she was pleased with a 
happy delusion, for Rebecca said she would get one, if mother 
would let her. Sorry enough was the child when it was time 
for Mrs. Grey to go home, and she must part with the apron. 

A week went by, and not one word said Mrs. Hadly in 
reference to the information she had received, or of the odious 
light in which she regarded it. Her manner toward her chil- 
dren was always reserved and chilling; there were no little 
confidences; no playful words or actions ever between them; 
and though the children loved her, they stood in too much awe 
of her to communicate any of their hopes or fears, or joys or 
SOrrows. 

It was Saturday morning; a light green wagon, before which 
two plump and sleek sorrel horses were harnessed, stood by 


MRS. GREY’S TWO VISITS. 297 


the door of Mr. Hadly. Ellie and Rebecca were arrayed in 
their best calico gowns, and though they had no gloves, and 
could scarcely keep their feet in their outgrown and rundown 
shoes, they left their low chamber filled with echoes of laughter, 
as they descended and climbed into their places, nestling down 
in the clean fresh straw, with which it was partly filled. Half 
sunken in clover, a little way off, and wet with dew, glistened 
the little white feet of Lucy, her eyes half full of sunshine and 
half of tears. Her brown little hands locked together behind 
her, a faint smile on her slightly parted lips, and her yellow 
hair, partially curled, falling and drifting about her neck and 
shoulders, she had just found courage to say, “Don’t forget 
the apron, will you?” as Mr. Hadly, his benevolent counte- 
nance shadowed by his broad-rimmed hat, untied the reins from 
the bough of the cherry tree. 

“Stop,” said Mrs. Hadly, appearing at the door; “ Rebecca 
is not going to town to-day.” This she said in a calm low 
tone, and as though pronouncing a sentence from which there 
was no appeal. Rebecca felt it to be so, and without question 
or hesitancy, obeyed, getting out of the wagon. 

“T will stay, too, mother,” said Ellie, in a trembling voice. 

“No, my child; go to town and get you a new dress and 
bonnet: Rebecca don’t deserve any.” 

This was said in a tone of self-commiseration, and as though 
she acted under the force of some terrible duty, and not in 
accordance with her will. Mr. Hadly looked puzzled a mo- 
ment, pushed his hand through his iron-gray hair, stepped into 
his place, and drove away, saying to Ellie, in a tone half sad, 
half peevish, “I wonder what made your mother take such a 
notion? what has your sister done that is so bad?” Lucy 
sank down in the grass where she was standing, and, plucking 
the long blades, plaited them listlessly together, the tears 
dropping silently into her lap. But Rebecca, calm and unques- 
tioning, resumed her work-day dress and her accustomed labors. 
All the day her thoughts were colored with saddest memories. 
She had little appetite for dinner, and less for supper, but fore- 
bore to speak of the headache with which she suffered, per- 
forming every task which usually fell to herself and Ellie, alone. 

13* 


298 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


Toward night, while she milked, she listened eagerly to the 
sound of every wagon, but one after another passed by, and it 
was not until the lilac by the door was full of twilight birds, 
that the sorrel horses were seen coming over the hill. 

Secarcely had she and Ellie been parted for a day, but the 
time had seemed very long, and now that she so much felt the 
need of the words and the endearments of sympathy, it is no 
wonder she ran to the gate eagerly as she did. But Ellie was 
not there. Aunt Jane, who lived in three rooms, and did plain 
sewing, had prevailed on her to stay and have her new dress 
made and her bonnet trimmed a little in the fashion, and so 
return home when her father should come to market the next 
week. 

The moon rose round and full, filling the little chamber with 
a flood of trembling golden light, checkered with the window- 
sash and dotted with the leaves of the cherry tree without. 
Lucy had sobbed herself to sleep in the arms of Rebecca, and 
every now and then a long stifled breath disturbed the silence 
that else closed round her. 

Sometimes the sleepless girl pressed one hand against her 
head; sometimes she turned, restlessly ; and at last, wearied 
out, adjusting her pillow to support her, she sat upright. Very 
calmly fell the moonlight in the chamber—very still was the 
world without; but neither her heart nor her head would be 
lulled. She thought of Ellie, alone, and far away as the dis- 
tance that separated them seemed to her; she thought of the 
schoolmaster and his solitary grave; she thought of herself; 
and thought, and thought, and thought,. till at last the birds 
fluttered twittering from the lilac, and the pink and crimson 
streaks went blushing up the whitening East, without her having 
slept. 

The world is full of bruised and crushed hearts and desolate 
Spirits; moans of sorrow creep vein-like through the sun- 
shine, and underlie the laughter, however gay and loud; _pil- 
lows of pain, and chambers where the soft step of sleep will 
not tread, are all over the world; since the serpent folds were 
among the flowers, there is no perpetual bloom; and since sin 
furrowed the world with grave-mounds, and the white wings of 


MRS. GREY’S TWO VISITS. 299 


the angels darkened away from the curse, there is no rest and 
no solace for us any more. 

Orphaned as ‘ve are, we have need to be kind to each other— 
ready, with loving and helping hands and encouraging words, 
for the darkness and the silence are hard by where no sweet 
-are can do us any good. We have constantly before us the 
beautiful example of Him who went about doing good, yet 
how blindly, how perversely we err! A few bitter drops may 
poison the fountain of life, and the current flow sluggish and 
heavy forever. 

The week of Ellie’s visit was over: her new bonnet was 
trimmed and her dress made in pretty style, and she was glad 
when she saw the sorrel horses and the green wagon with its 
straw cushion before her aunt’s tidy chamber. Delightedly 
she ran to meet her father, and ask if all were well, but the 
smile with which he met her was sad, and his voice full of 
melancholy forebodings. Rebecca was very sick. 

“Oh, father! is she very sick ?” Ellie asked, :n a tumult of 
fear. 

Mr. Hadly tried to assume a more cheerful tone, and, turn- 
ing away his face, said, “I hope she will be better to-night. 
Get ready, Ellie, and we will drive home as fast as we can, for 
she wants to see you, poor girl!” ‘Tying on her new bonnet, 
but with no pleasure now, and with her dress folded to a neat 
parcel, she was soon in her place in the wagon. But Rebeccis 
had no new dress nor bonnet, and her own long-coveted trea- 
sures were now worthless. All the way she tormented herself 
with reproaches. If she had staid at home, or if she had gone 
back !—true, she was blameless, but for that her sufferings 
were not the less acute. She was impatient to be at home, 
yet she dreaded to arrive there. 

She saw some laborers cutting trees.in the woods, and 
whistling as they did so, and felt wronged almost that they 
neither knew nor cared about her sorrow. Carriages of gaily 
dressed people, driving toward the city, passed them, and she 
looked on them reproachfully. It was noon when they 
reached the school-house. The shutters and the door were open, 
the new teacher in the old one’s place, and the children playing 


800 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and shouting in the woods, the same as though none were sick 
and none were dead. Lucy was waiting at the gate. There 
were no tears in her large melancholy eyes, for she knew not 
what death was; but she was oppressed with a vague fear, and 
kept out of the house all the time. The horse and carriage of 
Mr. Harmsted stood in the yard, but all within seemed 
hushed—only Mrs. Grey was seen at the window sewing 
something that was very white. 

Both Ellie and her father forbore to ask about Rebecca of 
Lucy, who, crossing her hands behind her, looked wonderingly 
at the new bonnet. Mr. Hadly began to unharness his horses, 
that, tired with the fast drive, neighed impatiently to be in the 
stable; and Ellie stood hesitating, her new dress in one hand, 
and her old bonnet in the other, when Mr. Harmsted, coming 
from the house silently, touched the hands of each, and then 
taking the reins from Mr. Hadly, told them, in a low sad voice 
to goin. The father, brushing the tears away with the back of 
his hand, but in silence, and the young girl weeping out aloud, 
obeved. Mrs. Grey, putting down her sewing—a thin muslin 
cap—came forward to meet them, and relieving Ellie of the 
new dress and bonnet, said, “ Will you go up and see her 
now?” and softly opening the door, they followed to her 
chamber. The light was partly darkened away, and on the 
narrow bed where she had dreamed so many'bright dreams, 
Jay Rebecca, dreaming now no more. Ellie kissed her white 
lips, but their calm smile brightened not for the pressure ; 
folded her hands lovingly, but they fell back heavily and cold. 
Through the white gates of morning her spirit had gone where 
the night never falleth. In the graveyard opposite the old play- 
ground, is a simple head-stone, on which is graven— 


Resecca Hanpiy, 


AGED FIFTEEN YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS, AND FIVE DAYS. 


A RAINY DAY. .. 


A RAINY DAY. 


A stow and continuous rain had been falling all night and all 
day. Toward evening, the western clouds took a yellow tinge 
that showed where the sun was; but no beams struggled 
through. Dense and gray, in all the valleys, lay the mist, and 
it hung about the hills in detached patches, thinner and whiter, 
and among the trees crept lazily from bough to bough. Now 
and then a bird came from its covert of leaves, or other shelter, 
and perching on the topmost fence rail, fluttered its wings and 
pecked the loose feathers from its breast, and twittered feebly ; 
but the rain still drizzling on, ruffled its plumage presently, and 
flying away discouraged, it grew still. The chickens, in little 
groups, huddled under the low-spreading cherry trees, or be- 
neath the currant bushes, and with the spray glistening on their 
breasts, red and speckled and brown, stood with closed eyes, 
waiting for the night. 

The autumn, unusually mild, was wearing to its close. There 
had been no sharp frosts to blacken the flower-stalks, and they 
stood about the garden with some dying and dead blossoms 
clinging to them yet, withering away like mummies. The 
gorgeous foliage, the chiefest glory of our western autumns, 
was this year fading and falling with none of its accustomed 
beauty, and the dark belt of forest, topped with the clouds, 
which half encloses the vicinity of Clovernook, looked dreary 
and sombre enough. Since the event described in our last 
chapter, years have come and gone; all over all the neigh- 
borhood cottages and villas have thickened, and the undulating 
meadows, till the horizon, dropping on their bosoms, cuts off 
the view, are full of heavy-fleeced sheep, broad. shouldered oxen, 


802 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and deep-uddered kine, and the land is ridged with furrows, 
and plenteous in milk and wool. 

A half-dozen spires may now be seen from the house where 
Ellie was born, and where, within her memory, there was but 
one; and wealth and population have increased in the same 
degree; but the old homestead, where passed her childish 
years, with its hard experiences, is among the things that were. 
Thistles bloom among the hearthstones—the earth almost covers 
the beams where the porch used to be—the porch, where the 
blue morning-glories bloomed in summer, curtaining out the 
sunshine, and about which red hollihocks flaunted, and yellow 
sunflowers leaned down to the west. Where the garden was, 
a few apple and cherry trees remain, unpruned and neglected. 
The sweetbrier that clambered against the wall and even up 
to the eaves, with its notched leaves and pale and delicate roses, 
making all the house fragrant, is broken and matted together, 
half living and half dead. On the summit of the slope near 
by, stands a new dwelling, not fine nor stately, but decent and 
substantial, where the remnant of the Hadlys have their home— 
the remnant, for of the circle once so wide some are wan- 
derers, some have left the world. Rebecca, young and beau- 
tiful, half a woman, half a child, sighed not nor looked earth- 
ward when the still angel saluted her, “ where the brook and 
river meet,” and straightening with icy hands the rippled length 
of her dark tresses, took the flowers out, and bound them under 
the napkin. And Lucy—the gentle and loving Lucy—did not 
linger long. She never lived to know how full of sorrow the 
world is. When her ninth summer came round, her dark deep 
eyes lost their sunshine, and day by day she drooped, as if the 
dust were settling heavier and heavier in her golden hair, until 
the silent messenger took her in his arms. The spring rains 
fell, broadening and deepening the young blades of the wheat, 
and filling the green velvety troughs that lay along the mea- 
dows with soft warm floods; but with the lambs the gentle 
child came thither no more. 

A little girl had once come from the city to see her who wore 
a white dress. Lucy was not a child of poverty, but she was a 
rustic, and her garments of a simple and homely fashion ; and to 


A RAINY DAY. 803 


have one of white, that should look like that of the wealthy 
little visitor, was among her chief desires. Sometimes she 
ventured to give this wish expression, but was chilled into 
silence by the admonition that she “ had better wish to be a 
better girl.” When the white dress was put on, and fitted 
under her golden curls, and drawn down over her feet, she 
knew it not nor smiled that it was gained. 

From all her cares and toils the mother has gone, too: the 
grass is growing high and warm about her headstone. She was 
a good woman—more severe in family discipline, perhaps, than 
was necessary, but rigid in the performance of what she deemed 
her duty, busy early and late, not for herself, but her children, 
and when the circle was narrowed of two, her heart was broken, 
her occupation was gone, and the restless fever of unsatisfied 
longing consumed her life—fever that would not be abated ’till 
the seraphs folded their white wings about her forehead, and 
cooled its burning. 

Others have grown up into manhood and womanhood, and 
gone forth to create new interests and make new homes, and in 
the new house Ellie is now the oldest child. She is no longer 
young, though in the sober prime of womanhood, Young 
sisters have sprung up into girlhood, dear, very dear to her, 
but scarcely filling the places of those who are in the grave. 
The weight of early care has fallen on her, and a temperament 
naturally melancholy has become habitually sad, and discon- 
tented, and embittered. Her father is a good man, a kind man, 
but all his habits and thoughts and ideas reflect a past genera- 
tion. No innovation, however much for the better, disturbs 
the tenor of his way, but the farming is done, and the dinner is 
eaten, and the dress is worn, all in the old-fashioned style. 
Ellie’s gowns must be made as her mother’s were, and last 
as long. Times have changed, but he sees not that the frugal 
habits of the pioneer past are unsuited to the opulent present. 

The old slender furniture looked badly in the new house, and 
the naked floors required stouter hands than Ellie’s to keep 
them white. But the idea of carpets or of new chairs was pre- 
posterous. Neither was it admissable that any of the house- 
hold labor, even its drudgery, should be performed by a ser 


804 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


vant. There was nothing to do, Mr. Hadly said, since spin- 
ning and weaving were done away with. Ellie had had but 
small educational advantages—less even than her younger 
sisters ; but her intellectual endowments were naturally supe- 
rior. She had read what chance and opportunity afforded, and 
had thought a great deal; yet, at twenty-five, she had only the 
reputation of being a smart sort of country girl. She was 
modest, diffident even, and had passed her life in the greatest 
retirement, for the wealthy and fashionable society of the 
neighborhood found no attractions in her, nor had she ever made 
any overtures for its recognition. The consciousness of being 
entitled to a more elevated position, induced some discontent 
at the circumstances by which she was ruled, and at last em- 
bittered her naturally amiable temper. 

But let me return to the autumn and the rain. 

Before the hearth of an old-fashioned and simply-furnished 
room—the broad hearth upon which the logs were blazing— 
two persons are seated. The elder is Ellie, with smooth brown 
hair, parted plainly over a Grecian forehead, shadowed with 
sorrow and care, but unwrinkled yet, and wearing a simple 
dress of chintz. She is sewing on a child’s garment, and lis- 
tening to “ Marmion,” from which Zoe, who sits near her, is 
reading. Zoe is pretty, prettier than her sister, and almost ten 
years younger. They are brunettes. Ellie is the taller and 
more graceful, Zoe the more round and ruby-complexioned, 
her face having the tint of newly-winnowed wheat over which 
falls the crimson sunset. Her hair in black heavy curls clusters 
over her shoulders, and her eyes, blacker still, sparkle with 
laughing light. In her dress there is more style than in that of 
her sister, and on her forehead there is no care, and her hands 
are occupied with no task. 

“Beautiful! isn’t it beautiful?” exclaimed Zoe, putting down 
the volume and turning to Ellie. ‘ How I should like to read 
the novels, also!” and rising and going to the window she said, 
“If it were not raining, I should be tempted to go and borrow 
them: they would help us wile away the long evenings 
that are coming, and I am so tired of the old books we have! 


A RAINY DAY. 805 


But we can’t step out of doors for two or three days. Just see 
how it’s raining !” 

“Perhaps the clouds may break away,” said Ellie, who 
always spoke more hopefully than she felt: “it looks bright 
about the sunset; but if it were not raining I think you would 
scarcely venture out;” and a little less genially she added, “I 
don’t know any one I should want to ask to lend me books.” 
Zoe had opened the door, and looking forth earnestly into the 
rain, said nothing, and Ellie continued, “ Do you, Zoe ?” 

“No, none whom I think of,” said the young girl, her first 
ardent impulse checked and chilled. 

Briskly down the hill comes a one-horse chaise, the ringing 
hoofs of the gay animal strike sharply on the newly-washed. 
stone surface of the road, his breath curls whitening away from 
his nostrils, and his slim silky ears are bent forward, for he is 
nearing home; but the curtains are drawn closely down, so that 
the solitary inmate rides drily and comfortably. Ellie, who is 
sitting by the fire, busy with her thoughts and her sewing, hears 
not the rattling of the wheels, nor sees the smile that from under 
the curtains accompanies the familiar salutation, nor does she 
hear the voice saying, “ Don’t you envy me?’ but she sees the 
kindled light in Zoe’s face, and hears her light laughter as she 
answers, ‘‘ Most certainly.” 

“ Certainly what?” asks Ellie, dropping her work and looking 
up. “How chilly it is,” says Zoe, closing the door ; and coming 
forward she resumes her old seat, and explains that she was 
speaking to Mr. Harmstead, who was, as she supposes, just 
returning home from the city to his country seat, which, as the 
reader remembers, joined Mr, Hadly’s farm. ‘‘ What a plea- 
sant, agreeable person he is,” continued Zoe, half to herself 
and half to Ellie; “my chilled resolve is strengthened again—I 
will ask him for those books yet, one of these days.” 

“Humph!” said Ellie, looking musingly and sadly into the 
fire, and adding, after a moment, “I suppose he is to those 
whom he condescends to honor with his society.” 

“He can’t honor us very well if we won’t receive his 
civilities.” 

“T have never had occasion to slight the civilities either of 


806 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


him or any one else,” answered Ellie, half sadly, half bitterly, 
and her sewing falling in her lap, she sat gazing abstractedly 
into the fire. 

Zoe tried a more cheerful vein for some time; now of house- 
hold matters, now of what the neighbors were doing, and now 
of the new dress she proposed for herself. “I want it very 
gay,” she said, “with a ground of either orange or red, spotted 
with black ;” and smiling, self-satisfied, she looked at Ellie for 
some sanction of her taste. 

Ellie smiled too, but such a smile! I cannot describe it ; 
it was scorn, pity, and commiseration, all combined; but she 
remained provokingly silent. 

“What do you look that way for?” asked Zoe, in childish — 
and pouting anger. 

“Don’t I look to please you? I can’t help it, Zoe, that I am 
not fair to look on; for myself, I have become nearly reconciled 
to my plainness, but I cannot expect you, who are so much 
younger and prettier, to consider me with equal indulgence for 
my defects—you must look the other way, my dear ;” and she 
patted the cheek of her sister playfully, and smiled again; this 
time graciously as it were, and as though Zoe had actually re- 
garded her in the light she had herself assumed, and as though 
she could afford to be regarded so. - 

Zoe did look the other way, and covering her face with her 
brown hands, tears silently forced a way through them; and 
so, as the fire began to make the light in the room. uncertain, 
ghostly—for the patch of yellow western Glouds had gone into 
blackness—the sisters sat before it, moody and uncomfortable. 

Night fell gloomily enough; the wind, which had gone sob- 
bing across hills and among the leaves that filled the woods 
_with sodden masses and long faded furrows, only now and then 
through the day, veered about at sunset, and from the chill 
northeast swept in heavy and frequent gusts, rattling the win- 
dows of the parlor, and occasionally blowing the red flames 
down close against the blue hearth. 

The crickets crept out from their snug, warm crevices, and 
from the ends of the blazing logs and the empty corners of the 
great fireplace sung in answer to the storm, the storm that fell 


A RAINY DAY. 807 


now in impetuous and drenching floods, and now pattered light- 
ly against the pane, as the half moon, breaking away the clouds, 
pressed earthward her pale melancholy face, for presently the 
black squadrons marshalled and beat her back to the dark, and 
the rain descended again as though its fountains were all broken 
up. It was a lonesome, desolate night. 

However dreary and dismal a long autumn rain may be in its 
effect on the heart, it is soothing and softening, especially 
during the night-time, and Zoe, who was petulant, but not really 
ill-tempered, began to feel sorrowful rather than angry. Put- 
ting the embers together, and drawing nearer to Ellie, she said, 
as though she had not been weeping, as though there were no- 
thing to be vexed about, “ Now, if we only had that book rs 

“ Yes, if we had it,” said Ellie; and the sisters relapsed into 
silence—haply listening to the creaking of the elm-bough against 
the wall, haply to the whine of the spotted watch dog that 
crouched close against the doorsill and would not be driven 
thence by the storm. 

“Such nights make me sad,” Zoe said, breaking the silence, 
“1 think more of the times when I was a child, and there were 
so many of us to gather about the fire at night, and our merri- 
ment would not let us hear the storm. How desolate it is in 
the graveyard to-night. I am half afraid to think of it—the 
cold wet leaves dropping on the still mounds, and the long 
white grass beaten away from the headstones. Oh, Ellie, I wish 
we did not have to die; we might be so happy here!” 

“You will not think so when you are as old as I am,” an- 
swered Ellie, smiling sadly, “‘ they who are gone are done with 
care and suffering, and will not have to die any more. I think 
they are rather to be envied. What is this night of storms to 
them? And you, who are living, you who have youth and 
health and hope, are made mournful by it.” 

“If we had some stirring tale or poem, and I could read 
aloud, we should not hear the storm nor be lonely any more,” 
and rising and going to the table, she ruammaged through the 
meagre and ill-selected books, though she was well aware of 
the names and qualities of them all; and turning, empty- 
handed, away, she resumed her seat with a sigh, saying, “If 


808 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


ever this rain is over, I will call and ask Mr. Harmstead to lend 
me something to read, for charity’s sake, if for nothing else.” 

A low growl of the watch dog arrested the conversation, and 
it was followed by a heavy stamping on the broad flagstones 
before the kitchen door, and a loud rap. 

Zoe, who ran, half in hope that something was about to occur 
which would relieve this ennui, and half in fear that some dread 
accident had befallen a traveller, perhaps a near friend, returned 
in a moment, her face aglow with pleasure, and bearing in one 
hand a neat parcel and a small note, the edges of which glit- 
tered as she turned it to the blaze to read the address—saying, 
as she did so, “ You see fortune favors me; I believe even 
hoping for the best has influence to bring it; Mr. Harmstead 
has anticipated my wishes, I think, for it was his black boy, 
Cesar, who brought the package, which seems to be books, and 
this note”—and lighting the lamp, she threw the note into 
Ellie’s lap to read, adding, gaily, “I can’t read any thing but a 
schoolmaster’s hand, you know.” 

Unfolding the paper, Ellie read : 


“ Mr. Willard C. Harmstead begs leave to present his compliments to the 
Misses Hadly, and to offer as some solace for a dull evening the new novel, 
‘ Night and Morning,’ which he himself has found interesting ; and also to 
venture the hope, for their intellectual eminence is not unknown to him, that 
his books may bridge over the gulf which has hitherto lain between them, 
and facilitate the action of the neighborly feeling which on his part at least 
has always existed. In this hope he remains their very humble servant, 
dic. dc.” 


“What induces this affability in the gentleman of Willow 
Dale?” said Ellie, refolding the note. Willow Dale was the 
name of Mr. Harmstead’s farm. 

“T suppose he is willing to recognise us as human beings,” 
replied Zoe, “and for myself, I don’t see that he is our supe-— 
rior in any way. It is not in our stars, Ellie, but in ourselves, 
that we are such very humble persons, and there is no need at 
all that we should live in this isolation but for your foolish hu- 
mility and diffidence. What if Mr. Harmstead’s parlor has a 
bright carpet on the floor and yours has not; what if Mr. 
Harmstead has five hundred books and you have only five; 


A RAINY DAY. 309 


and what if he dines with silver plate and you without; must 
you therefore insist that you are of a lower range in intellect, 
in feeling, in all that makes a real distinction in society ?” 

“You talk eloquently,” Ellie said, “but before carrying your 
ideas into practice, I have a little story to tell; and so, having 
trimmed the lamp and stirred the coals, Ellie laid aside the 
wew volumes and the note, and saying by way of preface that 
what was in her mind was yet no “story,” she proceeded to 
relate what is contained in the next chapter. 


810 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


THE STRANGE GARRET 


“Ler me see—it is now twelve or thirteen years since Mr, 
Harmstead first came to our neighborhood—I remember well 
the first time I ever saw him. We were coming from school, 
Rebecca and IJ, and barefooted rustics we were, when he over- 
took us, and, adopting what he Supposed to be western manners, 
I suspect, began talking with us: first of our master, then of 
the village, its scenery, and the character of the people about 
us. I had never seen any one before who was so well bred, so 
refined, so gentlmanly as he; and I remember well how morti- 
fied I was for our bare feet, and our rustic appearance alto- 
gether. Even what I knew, I could not say half so well as 
though I had been talking with Mr. Hill or Uncle Dale, whom 
I had always known. In short, my idea of perfection was 
realized, when I saw him. 

“Sometimes I saw him passing afterward, and sometimes 
when going to or returning from the village, for he was always 
busy overseeing his workmen, and it required a good many to 
transform Mr. Hinton’s brier-smothered farm into Willow Dale. 
He had always a smile and a kind word when near enough 
to speak. Sometimes we saw Mrs. Harmstead, a pale delicate 
looking woman, but she never smiled or seemed to notice us in 
any way. She was rather a pretty woman, but in declining 
health, when I first knew her, or rather when first I saw her. Her 
dress was of some dark material; and as she walked about the 
yard and garden, she was always enveloped in a crimson shawl. 
She had been, as rumor said, an heiress, yet through failure of 
some speculations her husband had lost not only his own 
estate but the greater part of hers; and their removal to our 


< 


THE STRANGE GARRET. 311 


neighbornood had been in consequence of fallen fortunes, as the 
loss of wealth involved also the loss of position in their native 
city. 

“ And, in our little democracy, you know, more than now, 
they were thought very great people at the time of their com- 
ing among us. Many persons indeed thought it well enough 
to be on terms of friendship with the nursery girls, and through 
them to obtain occasional glimpses into the drawing-room, or 
to purloin the fashion of Mrs. Harmstead’s caps and wrappers. 
Others only ventured a timid rap on the kitchen door— 
placing themselves on terms of social equality with the lower 
servants for the sake of saying they had called at Mr. 
Harmstead’s. 

“There were some few rich or stylish families about here at 
that time, but they were exceptions—not enough to redeem 
the general character of the society, which was in truth, suffi- 
ciently uncultivated; and it is no great marvel that Mrs, Harm- 
stead thought us little better than barbarians. I think, however, 
I may claim for our village even at that time a semi-civiliza- 
tion; but she could not or would not place herself on a level 
with her neighbors, with any sort of grace; and though she 
sometimes tried to be cordial, it amounted to nothing more 
than affability, implying always something of condescension, 
The obtuse perceptions of most of her visitors—and for their 
own happiness this obtuseness was no misfortune—prevented 
their apprehension of things, so that tea-drinking with the fine 
lady was of frequent, and on one side at least, of happy 
occurrence. 

“¢ What a charming person Mrs. Harmstead is,’ said one and 
another, ‘you don’t know how much you lose in not making 
her acquaintance ;’ but notwithstanding their entreaties, we 
were not prevailed upon to call, close neighbors as we were. 
My mother, who was as decided in her ways of thinking as 
Mrs. Harmstead was in hers, could not conceive of the possi- 
bility of there being any oneness of feeling between city bred 
people and plain farmer folks, unmindful that human nature 
knows no barriers, and that however different our circles of 
thought, there are always points that will touch. I was young 


812 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


then, and it is not strange that Mrs. Harmstead, accustomed to 
the amenities of educated manners, should fail to see through 
the husk of awkward rusticity that enveloped my intellect— 
any intellect at all. How could she separate me from the class 
to which by birth and education and manner I belonged when 
I had given and could give no evidence of superiority ; indeed, 
there was no mechanic’s daughter nor a milk-maid in the neigh- 
borhood whose advantages and opportunities were not greatly 
above mine; and yet even I can scarcely lay my forgiveness 
on the grave of the innocent offender. 

“T think, now, she must have been a kind and really obliging 
woman. When Rebecca was sick, she came, without ceremony, 


bringing her many little delicacies, and showing her gentle 


attentions, for which I fear she received less gratitude than she 
merited. She brought some conserve of roses once, I remem- 
ber, and it was remarked by some of our folks, that she doubt- 
Jess wished to exhibit her silver cup. I mention this, to show 
you how every thing which came within the range of luxury 
was regarded. These little attentions of Mrs. Harmstead quite 
won my love, and but for one untoward circumstance we might 
have been friends. When Rebecca was gone, I cannot tell you 
how lonely I was, my life had become a blank, and I never 
prayed so earnestly as I did when the clods rattled heavily 
down on her coffin. We had been always together, and now 
there was no sympathy for me in the world. Henceforward, I 
must go to school alone, sleep alone, be alone everywhere. 
My new dress and bonnet and slippers were first worn at her 
funeral, and I had no pleasure in them. 

“One night, as I was returning from school, Mr. Harmstead 
overtook me; he was alone in his carriage, and asked me to 
ride. My new slippers had not been obtained to wear, of 
course, and my feet looked red and cold, for the frosts were 
come; and Mr. Harmstead, greatly to my mortification, told 
me Imust be more careful of my health, and not neglect to 
wear my shoes any more. Ah me! it was not my fault that 
I did not wear my shoes. He talked to me very kindly, and 
when we reached the graveyard, and I said ‘ Let me get out here,’ 
for Thad never gone by without storping, he seemed to feel 


Cen ee at ee ee oe 


THE STRANGE GARRET. - $18 


sorry, and insisted on taking me all the way home; but when I 
saw the high-heapt grave, the tears would not stay back, and 
reining in his horse, he lifted me out, and opening the gate 
for me, said, ‘Don’t stay long, and don’t cry, my dear little 
girl,’ 

“TI think he was really interested by what he knew of my 
deep sorrow, and that his wife at least pitied me. A day or 
two after this, she came to our house and asked forme. I 
trembled as I presented myself: no man nor woman had prof. 
_ fered a similar request before. A half-dozen young ladies were 
to take tea with her in a day or two, and she wished me to be 
of the number; no doubt the little party was made with special 
reference to me. I was still half a child, and had always been 
regarded as quite one. I knew neither how to decline nor 
accept her invitation, and stammered something to the effect, 
that I should like to come if I could; and Mrs. Harmstead left 
me, saying, she was sure I could come, and she would confi- 
dently expect me. The young women, she had asked to her 
house were noisy, confident, and ill-bred persons, whom I but 
slightly knew and liked not at all; nevertheless I felt that her 
intentions were kindly, and that I should so consider them; but 
I received no encouragement about going, and when the day came 
round, and I said, ‘ What shall I wear, mother?’ she answered, 
‘Wear where, my child? as though she had no thought of my 
going any where; and when I explained, she added, ‘If you are 
going into fashionable society, I have nothing to say, except 
that I think you will make but a poor show there.’ I had cried 
for an hour, passed another in wishing myself out of the world 
and was just tying on my sun-bonnet to go out to Rebecca’s 
grave, when I was told that Mr. Harmstead was come for me, 
and that I could go if I wished. 

“ Drying my tears as well as I could, I made myself ready. 
The arts of the toilette I understood but imperfectly, as you 
may conceive, but if I had been an adept it would have been 
all the same, for my limited wardrobe admitted of no variation. 
Before descending, I surveyed myself in the little broken glass 
that hung on one side of my chamber, and even with no con- 
trasts at hand unfavorable to myself, was but ill satisfied. 

> 


314 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


And here, I may as well describe my whole appearance. I was 
in that transition period most awkward of all—my hands and 
feet overgrown and distorted with toil and exposure, the wide 
hands converting the glove’s length into breadth, and leaving 
the upper portion uncovered, and the feet, unaccustomed to 
such confinement, quite over-running the delicate slippers I had 
brought from town.” 

“ Oh, Ellie, do show yourself some mercy!” exclaimed Zoe, 
changing her position uneasily; but the elder sister was in no 
mood to spare herself, and without making any reply, con- 
tinued— 

‘Constant and careless exposure had ruined my complexion, 
never fair, and my dress was as ill-selected and ill-made as 
you can imagine. On this occasion, I wore a coarse cotton 
fabric of flashing colors, and without cape, collar or ribbon to 
relieve it. But my bonnet I looked to as the redeeming 
feature; it had cost enough to have made my whole dress, in 
elegant simplicity, yet it was a great deal too large for me, a 
great deal too stylish for me, and its purple ribbons and flow- 
ers did not suit the olive tint of my face. The traces of 
tears were still distinctly visible, and a bitter consciousness of 
all this restrained every word and action; still, I tried to smile, 
hoping Mr. Harmstead would not see me as | saw myself. 

“‘T do not flatter myself now that he did not. He had made 
no effort with a view to his appearance, but his black gloves 
and gracefully fitting gray sack rendered him unlike the farmers 
I was accustomed to see. ‘The day was pleasant, and he did all 
in his power for my enjoyment. Almost any one else would 
have been pleased and flattered, but I was neither. On ar- 
rival at his house the little self-possession I set out with nearly 
deserted me—partly that a black boy took charge of the horse, 
and partly that Mr. Harmstead conducted me, as politely as 
though I were some great lady, toward the piazza where Mrs, 
Harmstead was waiting to receive me, gaily mantled in silks 
and furs. . 

‘‘The girls were already assembled—every one in holiday 
attire, and seemingly in the pleasantest spirits imaginable. I 
felt none of their happiness, and could not join in their sprightly 


THE STRANGE GARRET. 315 


nothings. I did not wish to be classed with them, nor thought 
of with them. And yet I appeared no better than they ; I could 
not talk so well; and what right had J to think of being singled 
from them? None, certainly. This I knew, but it only added 
to my vexation. I was annoyed at being there at all, and angry 
with: myself that the thought and feeling which were in me 
were so completely hidden by my rusticity. I might have 
done well enough if I had acted naturally, and spoken simply 
of the things | knew; but supposing I had a great part to per- 
form I went through a course of acting which was foreign to 
me—adopting stately silence for the most part, and speaking in 
high-sounding phrases, which neither my habits nor education 
warranted. I had conceived the notion, common enough to 
ignorance, that in the better circles of society every thing was 
done and said by rule and measurement. 

“Mr. Harmstead, after jesting for a time with the girls, threw 
aside his coat, like a native countryman, and went out to some 
rural employment, and Mrs. Harmstead played the humble 
hostess to admiration. She talked familiarly of the making of 
custards and puddings; the times and methods of gardening ; 
the best systems of household economy; and many other 
things which she never practiced and never expected to prac- 
tice. I think, however, she was resolved to make the best of 
circumstances, and in fact did attempt cheese and butter making, 
as well as placing herself on a level with her neighbors. On 
this memorable occasion she mingled with children and nur- 
sery girls and kitchen girls and ill-bred women, as though our 
being born free and equal were the highest and most un- 
questioned truth of her creed. 

‘“‘ Apples and cider and nuts were given us in true country 
style, with the exception of the silver service. The young 
ladies who thought they were conferring as much pleasure as 
they received, and failed to see how much that was so pleasing 
to them was assumed merely for effect, felt so entirely at home 
presently as to criticise the carpet, curtains, busts, and other 
furniture within their observation, with a freedom and coolness 
quite interesting. It had not been thought necessary to open 
the parlor for our accommodation, and an apartment, used 


7” 


316 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


generally as a library and tea-room, served for the entertain- 
ment of the little party. 

“The cloth was laid betimes, that we might have the twilight 
for homeward walks, and some of the girls who were most 
expert and at ease, assisted in arranging the table, and even 
kindly lightened the labors of the cook. In short, all was going 
merry as was possible, when the sudden rattle of carriage 
wheels before the door, in the gravel-way, caused a new sensa- 
tion. A glimpse sufficed to show that the newly-arrived guests 
were not spirits of our order. For myself, 1 had a confused 
vision of silks and furs, and plumes and ribbons, and black 
broadcloth and gay shawls, and then a more dread conscious- 
ness of my red calico and white cotton hose, before the parlor 
received them. Mrs. Harmstead found her situation embar- 
rassing, very evidently. With both orders she could have 
done well enough on separate occasions, but they would no more 
mingle than oil and water. 

“Mr. Harmstead came in and put on his coat, saying, laugh- 
ingly, as he passed into the parlor, “How blest you are who 
have no city friends to bore you; but I must submit with as 
good a grace as possible.” So he bowed himself out and in. 
She, to her guests, said her nurse-girls and the children were 
having a little jubilee, which in accordance with the habits of 
the country must now and then engage her a moment; and 
thus continued to give us a little of her society. We should 
have our tea first, she said familiarly: her other friends would 
want little but bread and milk; and so the nursery maids and 
kitchen girls and children and country girls sat down together, 
Mrs. Harmstead doing part of the honors and consigning a 
part to the upper domestic. - 

“After tea it was evidently expected that the little party 
would disperse; but for some cause | was invited to remain— 
perhaps that I had farther to go than the rest. At any rate, | 
was asked to stay, and did stay; for feeling that I had not 
made the impression | wished, I was glad of an extended oppor- 
tunity to retrieve myself. I need not say how miserably I 
failed. In the midst of a company of fashionable and edu- 
cated people, I appeared shockingly out of place: my dress 


THE STRANGE GARRET. 317 


had never appeared so red, nor my hands so brown; indeed, I 
had never felt so ungainly, so embarrassed, or such utter detes- 
tation of myself and the whole world. Their discourse was 
chiefly of some new discovery in science, and for all I knew of 
it they might as well have talked in Greek. No one however 
paid any attention to me, except to look at me sometimes, as 
J tried to shrink from observation, in a way that seemed to 
question, How on earth did you chance to be here? One of 
the gentlemen, indeed, asked me whether I had ever been in 
the city, and if I best loved milk or cider; and sometimes Mr. 
Harmstead spoke to me aside, as it were, and of matters fami- 
liar to me, such as whether we kept a large dairy, whether I 
knew how to sew, and whether I liked best to work or to play. 

“J cannot tell all my humiliation and mortification. I wished 
I was in the barn, in the woods, in the depths of the sea—any- 
where except there; but how should I get out of the room? 
I could not, and so remained until the company withdrew to the 
piazza, to witness some wonderful feat of Master Harry Harm- 
stead’s dog. Now is my time, I thought, and seizing my fine 
bonnet, I made my escape through a side-door; but as the gate 
closed behind me I heard some one call, ‘ Miss Hadly! Miss 
Hadly ! I quickened my pace, however, and did not look 
back. In a moment Mr. Harmstead was at my side, urging the 
impropriety of my walking home alone, and requesting that he 
might be permitted either to go himself or to send Caesar with 

me. 

“ My eyes were full of tears and my voice trembling, as I 
declined his civilities, and through the gathering darkness, and 
under the storm which had commenced falling, I walked home 
alone. 

“You may smile, but the sufferings of that day were terrible, 
and I have not since crossed Mr. Harmstead’s threshold—not 
even for the funeral of Mrs. Harmstead or little Harry; and 
when you spoke of a bright dress, and proposed to call there, 
I was reminded but too sensibly of all these little incidents.” 

The rain had long ceased to beat against the windows; the 
clouds were flying wildly along the sky, their torn edges glit- 
tering with moonlight, and the cutting wind came sharply from 


- 


‘“ 


818 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


the north. The new books had not been opened, and tossing 
the polite note in the fire, Zoe lighted the night lamp in silence, 
and the two sisters retired to their chamber—neither speaking— 
both thinking bitterly of the past, hopelessly of the future. 
Little thought Ellie, as she mused in the darkness, that neither 
the plummet of joy or sorrow had as yet sounded the depths of 
her heart. Little thought she that her hitherto clear vision 
could so easily be obscured. 


MRS. PARKS’S PARTY. 319 


MRS. PARKS’S PARTY. 


“ Prive above all things strengthens affection,” says one who 
has gone through every winding of the human heart, and whe- 
ther in all instances this may find an application, it is eminently 
true of particular natures. Beneath a quiet exterior there was 
in the bosom of Ellie Hadly great decision and strength, with 
a depth of pride which even she herself had never fathomed. 
When Mr. Harmstead first came to the neighborhood of Clover- 
nook, he was certainly greatly superior to the general society 
among which he took up his residence; not that his mental en- 
dowments were very great, or better perhaps than those of 
some of his neighbors, but his had been brought out by educa- 
tion, and they found expression in graceful manners and. 
polished phrases, while theirs were imbedded in the clownish 
fetters from which their position and circumstances of life had 
in no wise tended to free them. ‘This distinction between him 
and the persons to whom she had always been accustomed, 
Ellie had detected long years ago, and the consciousness that 
at the time of their first acquaintance she had not the slightest 
claim to equality of social position with him, still recurred with 
bitterness as well as with sorrow. 

Indeed, she could not but acknowledge to herself how strange 
it was that he should have sought the intercourse and sympathy 
of his neighbors at all—now that years had been as stepping- 
stones to elevate her thoughts and enlarge her vision above the 
narrow prejudices which she inherited ; for even she had now 
to cross the circle of rural pursuits and pleasures, within which 
she was born, to find any spirit congenial with her own, and 
how should he, who had been accustomed always to the bril- 


820 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


liance of educated mind, do homage to the little light that burned 
through ignorance and superstition, choked by the incessant dust 
of the tread of cattle or the moving of wheels. It was strange 
that the current of his thoughts should have flowed so readily 
into these new channels, that he should have taken so wide an 
interest in the little plans of his neighbors—the cutting of a new 
ditch, the painting of a fence, or the design of a cottage. By 
such demeanor, however, he lost nothing of caste, but was 
esteemed for it not only as a model gentleman, but also as an 
example of goodness, and he exercised constantly on those 
about him a refining and elevating influence. Chiefly through 
his instrumentality, in the course of a few years, the neighbor- 
hood of Clovernook had been changed from a thinly inhabited 
and ill-cultivated district, to one abounding with green lawns 
and spotted with vineyards and orchards, ridged with clipt 
hedges, and sparkling with public edifices. His own farm of 
Willowdale, with its level meadows, nicely trimmed groves, 
picturesque gardens, winding walks and shrubberies, would not 
be recognised by the proprietor, who, twelve or fourteen years 
ago, ploughed around blackened stumps, and through patches of 
briers and thistles. Friends of his have been led to build 
houses and cultivate grounds, and these have induced others to do 
so, till Clovernook may boast of as many attractions in point of 
taste and utility as the pleasantest summer retreat in the vicin- 
ity of any of the cities. And it has no reason to shrink from 
the closest inquisition respecting the general intelligence or re- 
finement of its inhabitants, among whom even our old friends, 
Mr. Middleton and Dr. Haywood, now find so many equals that 
they rarely think of going in to town in search of society. True, 
there were many persons in our village in its advanced state 
whose natural pre-eminence, scholastic attainments and greater 
wealth entitled them to more consideration than could justly 
be given to Mr. Harmstead, but still there was no one who 
received more. He had earned a distinction by being the 
pioneer of elegance and refinement among the people, for his 
predecessors of the same rank had lived in selfish isolation ; 
and no follower in his path could ever attain to the same popu 
larity. Mrs, Harmstead had never been so much a favorite ; 


MRS. PARKS'S PARTY. 821 


her neighbors never felt really at home with her, though some- 
times they pretended to be so; she never loved the green lane 
so well as the paved street, nor our kindly but coarse hospitali- 
ties so well as the more soulless civilities to which she had been 
accustomed ; and before any better phase of things was percep- 
tible, the fretfulness induced by her ungenial transition wore 
away her life. Even her dust was not permitted tu mingle 
with that of the villagers among whom she died, but was borne 
back across the mountains to more stately repose in the vaults 
of her family. For years previous to the time when Ellie 
related to her sister the reminiscences in the last chapter, the 
proprietor of Willowdale had been bereft of the solace and 
companionship which first hallowed his new home. But his 
widowhood made him none the less a man of the people, and 
many fair hands plucked salvers of fruit in his vineyards and 
gathered bouquets in his gardens. Nevertheless, years went and 
came without his having yielded to the soft influences with 
which he was constantly surrounded, and the sending the books 
to Ellie was a more decided overture than he had been known 
to make, for the intimacy of any woman, in his later years. 

Though five-and-forty, he was still youthful in appearance, as 
he was actually young at heart. There were no betraying 
streaks in his brown and glossy hair, no lines along his fore- 
head, and no dimness in his eyes, or effort in his smile, but he 
was still erect and handsome, and even to sixteen a fascinating 
man. His grounds, his cottage, his library, were the admira- 
tion of every body, Ellie not excepted, though she passed Wil- 
lowdale in her frequent visits to Clovernook, especially if the 
owner were inside, as though she saw nothing there particularly 
worthy her attention. If the necessity of recognition could not 
be obviated, she gave it him, but as if she knew little of him, 
and that little were not much to his credit. 

Thus, perhaps, they might have lived forever, but for that 
destiny which shapes our ends, regardless of our own determina- 
tions. I have spoken of pride as the strengthener of affection, 
and have said that in the heart of Ellie there was no want of it. 
It was this that had kept her from listening with more kindness 
to many an honest and thrifty wooer; for the heart must find 

14* 


822 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


shelter somewhere ; if not in love, in ambition or pride. “He 
is a very good young man,” it was her habit to say, of one and 
another who sought, with various attentions, to win her regard, 
“but his preference is nothing to me.” So the years went by, 
till girlish fancies kindled no more at a glance, and she had 
little need of calling pride to her aid for the subduing of way-. 
ward nature. Still, there was a sealed fountain in her bosom 
that had scarcely been troubled. Perhaps she was already con- 
scious of the hand that could unseal it, and for this reason 
fenced herself about with old and bitter memories. 

A few evenings after that I have mentioned, and when the 
feelings it had awakened were quite subsided, as Ellie and Zoe 
sat reading the new novel, there was a rap at the door, but on 
the entrance of the visitor, the crimson went down from the 
cheek of the elder sister, and the momentary light faded into 
more than her habitual expression of discontent. He was 
greeted by Zoe as Mr. Martin, by Ellie as William. It was 
our grown-up terror of schoolmasters, now a tall stripling, 
whose natural awkwardness was rendered ludicrous by an 
affected ease and gracefulness. Having little love for his pa- 
rents, he had, so soon as released from restraint by a sufficiency 
of years, gone out to make his own way in the world, and he 
was now employed as the head man of one of the wealthiest 
proprietors in the neighborhood. He was well satisfied with 
his position, never fancying that it might be thought doubtful 
by some persons, and by others regarded as necessarily restrict- 
ing his intercourse to servants or people of situations similar to 
his own. 

His kindly and democratic employer admitted him to equal- 
ity, at least so far as admission to his table and conversation 
went, and this gave him some vantage ground, of which he 
availed himself to the utmost. He had called simply as the 
bearer of a note, but protracted his stay through the entire 
evening, lingering even in the open door, after having risen to 
depart for at least half an hour—saying over and again, in the 
most familiar way, ‘“ Now, girls, you must come; Mrs. Parks 
and all of us will be so disappointed if. you don’t. And after 
you have once been and found the way, you must come often, 


MRS. PARKS’S PARTY. 323 


You can just come through the fields—there are only two 
fences to climb and the creek to cross—there is a big log for a 
bridge—and then one corn-field to go through, and so you 
are in sight of the house, and have only the meadow for the 
rest of the way ; so you will be sure and come often—won’t 
you? Mrs. Parks and all of us will be glad to have you more 
sociable. Now you will be sure and remember to come; but 
if you never come afterwards, you must come Wednesday 
night. I expect we'll have the greatest kind of a time.” 

The wind blew the flame out of the fire-place, and quite 
extinguished the lamp, but heedless of either warning he re- 
mained repeating the same phrases until the sisters having 
repeatedly assured him of the acceptance of the civilities of 
which he was the messenger, fell back on silence as a last resort, 
and the young man finally descended the steps. 

“ Well,” said Zoe, laughing, when he was gone, “shall we 
go, Elie?” 

‘Not I,” and the elder sister seated herself before the fire, 
in darkness, and resting one cheek on her hand, seemed not 
inclined again to break the silence. 

Zoe was in high spirits, caused partly by what she termed 
the kindness of Mr. Martin, and partly by the invitation from 
Mrs. Parks. “ ‘They would meet a few friends only, and in an 
informal way. Mrs. Parks hoped they would do her poor house 
the honor,’ &c. &¢. I wonder if Mr. Harmstead will be there?” 
she said, in the hope of interesting her sister in some way. 

“JT don’t know,” replied Ellie; and for the rest of the even- 
ing neither spoke at all. 

But during the intervening day or two the expected party 
was discussed, and carefully considered in all its lights and 
shades, not as something from which they could excuse them- 
selves at pleasure, but rather as though the happiness or misery 
of their lives were depending on it. And indeed to them it was 
a great event. 

Ellie urged the expediency of sending an apologetic note, but 
Zoe’s voice was still for going, and so action was delayed until 
they were obliged either to go or appear disrespectful by 
remaining silently away. : 


824 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


“What do you propose to wear?” asked Ellie, when the 
morning of the day was come. 

“T hardly know what will look best.” 

Ellie said she could not decide for Zoe, but for herself she 
had no choice, and should wear the last year’s delaine. The 
younger sister said something about its having been always 
plain, and now, really old-fashioned; but Ellie simply repeated 
that she had no choice—that if she went she must wear the old 
dress—but that she preferred to remain at home, and that Zoe 
should go without her. 

“No, no—you must go, too,” urged Zoe; “and if you are 
not pleased, | will never ask you to go with me anywhere 
again.” 

And so, passively, but neither pleased nor satisfied, Ellie 
consented. | 

Scarcely was the sun set before Zoe was in readiness, and 
leaving the evening tasks to her sister, she sat down to await 
the hour of departure. Her dress was a simply made white 
muslin one, and though worn without any ornament but her 
black curls, she certainly looked pretty in it. 

Punctually at seven o’clock, Mr. William Martin was on the 
ground with Colonel Parks’s little wagon, and after waiting 
half an hour for Ellie, who had the tea things and the milk to 
attend to, the party set out. ‘ 

“T would have come with any one else more willingly,” said 
Ellie, as she smoothed her hair and drew down her sleeves, for 
they were too short, preparatory to entering the parlor, from 
which sounds of mirth came annoyingly to her ears. “I 
thought we should get here before any one else, or I would 
not present myself, looking as I do, and with this Martin, for 
all the world; and just see this old brown dress! why, Mrs. 
Parks’s waiting-maid looks lady-like in comparison with me. 
I wish I was at home. I am not fitted for society in any way.” 
And she stood in trembling apprehension of what seemed a 
terrible ordeal ; and as Zoe stooped to pull down the skirt, and 
make it seem a little longer, she felt her tears drop on her 
head. In vain she said, “You look well enough, dear Ellie, 
and no one will perhaps notice at all that Billy Martin is with 


~ 


MRS. PARKS’S PARTY. 825 


us; but if they do, what of it? If we have no position but 
one so easily lost, it is not worth much.” 

Glancing at herself as though some sprite had transformed 
her into an uncouth shape, Ellie said they had no position to 
lose, and both descended in silence. The rooms were brilliant 
with light, and filled with gay and well-dressed people—some 
at the whist table, some sitting, and others standing, in little 
groups, talking gaily, or in a tone which intimated the greatest 
confidence. Naturally enough, many eyes were turned in the 
direction of the last comers, and to Ellie it seemed that she 
was the object of all the company’s observation. Mrs. Parks 
came forward, and said, “ My dears!” with a familiar kindness, 
but her manners and those of all the assembly were so new to 
Ellie and Zoe, that self-possession, the basis of all grace in 
behavior, quite deserted them, and they had really never ap- 
peared so ill at ease, or so removed from their fit element. 

And before they had become at all accustomed to the showy 
style of the furniture, the brilliant light from the chandeliers, 
and the general air of elegance and fashion all around them, 
Billy Martin, or “ William,” as every one was heard to call 
him, seeming in no wise inclined to leave them for a moment, 
completed their discomfiture by calling out, half across the 
room, and with an affected familiarity, “ Harmstead, here are 
two of your neighbors, that you don’t seem to see.” 

Mr. Harmstead advanced, and bowing low, offered his com- 
pliments to the ladies, gracefully but very briefly, and expres- 
sing a fear that he was interrupting a /eée-a-tete, withdrew to a 
distant part of the room, where he was presently engaged in a 
game of backgammon with a lady of sixty, who, coquettishly 
tossing back her curls, thin and gray, said, after exclaiming, 
“Oh, you wicked man!” on losing some point in the game, 
“Ts it true, Mr. Harmstead, that you have selfishly consecrated 
Willowdale to yourself—all to yourself?” 

He asserted that rumor did him wrong in any such reports, 
but that greatly against his will, the ladies not only passed him- 
self but Willowdale without a glance. “True,” he added, 
bringing his hand down on the board, “ and my little neighbor 
here can testify to the fact,” turning to Zoe, who by this time 


826 -OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


had been conducted to his neighborhood by a very young rosy- 
cheeked and lily-handed gentleman, who talked of the univer. 
sal brotherhood of mankind, the tendencies of the human to 
the divine, and the speedy return of paradisal times ;—of all 
which he made very little clear to the mind of Zoe. 

Poor Ellie, now utterly deserted—for “William” left her 
when Zoe was gone—sat demurely in the gloomiest corner of 
the room, her ungloved hands folded together, and her face, 
with its steadfast and mournful expression, looking beneath her 
simply combed hair, and contrasted with so much gaiety, more 
plain than usual. Now and then, indeed, some kindly-disposed 
old gentleman paused from his round, and conversed a little— 
perhaps of the best method of making pumpkin pies, perhaps 
of the superior excellence of home-made bread, or of the 
attractive warmth and beauty of wood fires. Zoe, from her 
more genial behavior, and it may be, too, from her more lady 
like appearance, received many attentions, and found the even- 
ing delightful even beyond her hopes, so that she forgot her 
sister—forgot every thing, in the bewildering pleasure of the 
occasion, 

When refreshments were announced, Ellie saw group after 
group leaving the parlor, till she was finally its only occupant, 
when Mr. Harmstead abruptly entered, and whether he saw her | 
or not, withdrew as suddenly as he came, apparently looking 
for some one whom he did not see. 

By this time, “ William,” who had missed her from the 
table, came kindly to her protection. He tried his best to 
please, presenting Ellie whatever was accessible, between and 
behind the half dozen persons who stood before her. Hidden 
as she was, however, she could not fail to see her sister at the 
opposite end of the table, smiling to the smiles of the delicate- 
handed man I have mentioned, and bandying repartees with 
the voluble Mr. Harmstead, almost against whose face floated 
the curls that had been familiar with papers and combs for 
fifty years or more. 

Not vexed and with petulance merely, did she see this, but 
with bitterness and something like hatred of herself and of the 
world, Again in the dark comer Mr. Harmstead presented 


MRS. PARKS’S PARTY. 827 


himself—perhaps in pity, she thought—and challenged her to 
play with him. Ignorant of the game proposed, she excused 
herself with more coldness and formality than were quite 
necessary, but the gentleman was determined, and she finally 
yielded. But her first cast of the dice was with a needless 
violence, and they went rattling across the table and over the 
floor in all directions. She saw smiles, quickly suppressed 
though they were, and the crimson of her cheek was fol- 
lowed by pallor and by moistened eyes. 

Soon after, quietly, but with a heart swelling with rebellion 
against every thing, she retired, attended by the escort with 
which she came; and leaving Zoe in the midst of the pastime, 
she returned home to discontented reveries and sudden resolu- 
tions, born of rage and drowned in tears. | 


898 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


A WINTER’S CHANGES. 


Tux next day Ellie and Zoe talked much of the past evening, 
The younger sister had been delighted, even though she had 
found no one but herself in a white dress ; and she could not 
help thinking that Ellie might have been as happy as she, if she 
had not permitted her foolish sensitiveness to stand in the way; 
and undoubtedly this was true, in part, yet it was Ellie’s mis- 
fortune, and not her fault. And of all situations, I can conceive 
of none so really comfortless, as that of a superior intellect, 
weighed down with petty oppressions which, in the first place, 
hinder its development, and, when through years of unaided 
and half-thwarted endeavor, it comes in some sort to the light, 
hedge it round with circumstances that prevent its recognition, 
The bright fountain may be away down in the earth; but 
who sees it under the brown clay and the heaps of stones and 
the weeds that grow thick above it? Who values the gold in 
the rough ore as much as in the exquisitely wrought jewel ? 
But where talent, or even genius, is invested with any peculiar 
and decided awkwardness or ungainliness, it seems most hope- 
less of all: the beholder may be conscious of its presence, but 
he will not reverence it; or one may even have intercourse with 
another, greatly his superior, for years, and never once suspect 
there is any preéminence ;. because the possessor of the finest 
intelligence acts not himself, but as he conceives circumstances 
require him to act; else the appointments of his neighbor’s 
house, or the affable flow of his conversation, confuse or res- 
train him, till his thoughts find no words in which to clothe 
themselves, 

Many a distinguished author, but for the publication ot his 


A WINTER'S CHANGES. 829 


works, would have passed for a clown all his days; and others, 
for the want of mere verbal facility, pass life in obscurity. 

There were several women in Clovernook, at the time I write 
of, who looked pretty, and conversed with sprightliness, and 
were called by everybody brilliant; but Ellie Hadly, plain, 
obscure, and depreciated, had in her soul creative energies 
which entitled her to be regarded as of a more elevated order 
in nature. 

Drinking in the light of the sunset, running over the hills 
with the winds, or joining in the wild chorus of the birds, were 
the sources of her sweetest enjoyment, unless a rarer felicity 
was in the indulgence of her own thought and feeling, or in the 
companionship of bards among their dwelling-places in the 
mystical ‘realm of dreams. Sometimes, too, hidden away in 
some velvety hollow, where the tinkling of the water chimed to 
the melody of her heart, she talked all day with the muses, and 
laying her cheek close against the fragrant earth, was lifted in 
rapt visions away from the smoke and turbulence that are in 
the world. The blue walls of air, that other times divided her 
from dreamland, crumbled down, till, though she saw not the 
flowers that grew about her, nor the verdurous boughs that 
shadowed her couch, she felt that the frosts of time had no 
power upon either. What were the daffodils in the hands of 
spring? what were the plenteous billows of the harvest, or the 
mists that wrap like golden fleeces the hills of autumn, were 
it not for the imaginations that come into our hearts, making 
them beautiful and glorious ? 

A week or two went by; Zoe, unusually happy and cheerful ; 
and Ellie maintaining the settled calmness which, if not despair, 
is hopelessness. The young “reformer” had found Clovernook an > 
exceedingly attractive place; and since first meeting the sisters, 
at the house of Colonel Parks, had more than once edified them 
with his orations of the “good time coming ;” and whether it 
were the anticipation of a universal jubilee, or little glimpses of 
a lesser paradise, revealed by the light of smiles and glances, I 
know not, but Zoe had never seemed so joyous or so hopeful. 
And besides, she saw many things that might be made avail- 
able, and without any visible enlargement of means—the style 


$30 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 


of her dress, and the cast of her behavior, underwent a per 
ceptible improvement. 

“Oh, Ellie,” she said one day, approaching the white pine 
_ table, on which her sister was moulding bread, “I have made a 
plan!” “What is it?” Ellie asked, quietly smiling at the 
enthusiasm she did not share; and adding after a moment, 
“you have grown utopian lately.” | 

Zoe, after a little blushing and stammering, replied that she 
believed her plan was feasible, and proceeded to explain that 
she had been thinking Ellie was wise enough to teach a school ; 
and that as the school house was vacant, there was a fine oppor- 
tunity of her talents being made useful to others, and profitable 
to themselves, 

“T have not sufficient education,” Ellie suggested, “ or if I 
have, it is not of the kind requisite for such employment; the 
little I know has been gleaned from chance sources; I know 
nothing thoroughly, and I doubt if my superficial acquirements 
could be turned to the least account in this way.” 

But Zoe continued her encouragement, and after some days 
hesitation, Ellie finally resolved that she would try; and night 
after night, by the light of a candle, she sat at the work-table, 
reviewing geographies, grammars, and spelling-books; and 
though her father asked her repeatedly, why she was thus 
wasting her time, she persevered, and when this discipline 
was accomplished, there remained two terrible ordeals to go 
through—the acquisition of a certificate from some authority in 
the city, whom she was afraid to see; and the subsequent visit- 
ing of the school directors for their approval and concurrence. 
For this last terror, she had slight encouragement in an evening 
dialogue at home. 

“Do you know who are the school directors, father?” she 
said, carelessly, as she poured the tea. 

“Why, yes,” answered Mr. Hadly, “one of them is our 
neighbor, Mr. Harmstead, who pays more attention to the 
flowers in his garden, I think, than to the education of the vil- 
lage children,” 

“I thought Mr. Harmstead had done as much for the neigh- 


A WINTER’S CHANGES. 881 


borhood as any one else,” said Ellie, though, if another had 
spoken in his praise, she would probably have been silent. 

“Oh, he is a good man enough, for aught I know,” said 
Mr. Hadly, “and he gave me some vines, and one or two 
trees that he had brought from France, but he talks so fast I 
can hardly understand him, and then he has so much fine com- 
pany, and one thing and another, lately.” 

How these things militated against the gentleman, it would 
have been hard for Mr, Hadly to define; nevertheless, they 
were sufficient for his prejudices to rest on. 

“But who are the other directors?” asked Ellie. 

“Mr. Peters and Mr. Jameson—but how does the school 
interest you?” 

Ellie said she had thought of teaching it herself; for she 
would not have dared to take a step of so much importance 
without her father’s consent; however she was pretty sure of 
obtaining that for any step she might propose that was honest, 
and by which money was to be obtained. As for the capa- 
cities of his daughter, Mr. Hadly had no doubt but that they 
were sufficient for the writing of a commentary on the Bible; 
how she had ever learned so much he didn’t know; neverthe- 
less he supposed there was not much but that she either knew 
or was entitled to know. And so Ellie was not surprised when 
he said, “It’s a good idea—you will make money enough by 
springtime to buy a cow or two, perhaps ;” and then, with 
increased earnestness, he added, “don’t get a speckled one, 
Ellie, nor one without horns ;” and with more zest than usual, 
he partook of the supper. Ellie’s hopes were a little dampened ; 
_ she had already resolved on a very different appropriation; and 
in visions, she had seen long coveted books range themselves 
before her. | 

A few more days, and the first dreaded ordeal was over ; she 
had trembled with fearful apprehensions, but her efforts thus far 
were successful; and the certificate was brought home, and 
deposited for safe keeping between the leaves of the great Bible. 

“J will call on Mr. Peters and Mr. Jameson,” said Ellie, 
“and perhaps it will not be necessary to call on Mr. Harm- 
stead at all;” and so, one dusty morning, her shawl wrapt 


832 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


closely about her, and the veil drawn over her face, she set out 
in quest of additional authorities. Mr. Peters’s was nearest, 
and thither she first bent her steps; but that person was on the 
corner of his farm fartherest from the house, ploughing his 
wheat-field. Mrs. Peters, who was fond of stating particulars, 
said the ground had not been broken up for seven years; but 
that it then produced corn higher than her son John’s head, 
when he had one of these dreadful high-crowned hats on; and 
that the pumpkins which grew among it, without any care at 
all, were so big that one of them would have made a hundred 
pies. Mr. Peters, she added, was ploughing with colts. Thus 
edified, and having received directions what fields to cross, to 
avoid stubble, and where were the best places to climb the 
fences, Ellie pursued her way. 

Arrived at last within speaking distance, Mr. Peters reined 
in his colts, and turning round in the furrow, leaned against the 
plough to give her audience. , 

After a few minutes conversation, Ellie understood that Mr. 
Peters, who had no children, had no interest in the school, and 
did not wish to be consulted. He said, however, he thought 
she would find no difficulty; the children were mostly small, 
and so ignorant that a woman could teach them well enough, 
for the rich folks would not patronize the district school; he 
would advise her to apply to Mr. Jameson, who was fond of 
business, and had half a dozen young ones; and he concluded 
by telling her that his colts did’t like to stand. 

In the newly turned furrow, Ellie crossed the field behind him 
in the direction of Mr. Jameson’s, 

He was a man of wealth, but lived in a primitive sort of 
way—his house and every thing about it being a century be- 
hind the age. The narrow and old fashioned skirts of the chil- 
dren were seen flying toward the house as Ellie came in view ‘ 
they were not used to seeing strangers, though if Ellie’s dress 
shawl had been less bright, and if a handkerchief had been tied 
on her head in place of a bonnet, their fright would not have 
been so great. Six dogs, from beneath sheds and out of unseen 
places, ran toward her, raising an outcry and discordant chorus, 
and an old hen with an untimely brood flew against her, beat- 


A WINTER'S CHANGES. 333 


ing her wings in her face—at which juncture Mr. Jameson, with 
a dilapidated volume in one hand, and a slender switch in the 
other, came hurriedly to her rescue, opening a path between 
the dogs, and seizing the enraged hen by a quick and courageous 
movement of his other hand. 

Mr. Jameson employed his leisure time in reading law, and 
the book he held was perhaps a volume of Blackstone or a col- 
‘ lection of forms. He was more interested in the school than 
Mr. Peters, but he felt some hesitation about employing a wo- 
man: winter was coming, there would be a number of big boys 
to go, and he feared she could not get along. However, he was 
only one of three trustees; he would call a meeting in the 
school-house the next week, and after a consultation had been 
held, advise her of the result. And with this rather slight en- 
couragement, Ellie returned home. 

A week went by, and the evening after the school-house had 
been warmed and lighted for the meeting of the trustees, as the 
girls sat in the parlor talking of the probable result, they were 
surprised by the entrance of Mr. Harmstead : but how different 
his manner to-night from that he maintained a week or two 
previously at Colonel Parks’s. The reserve and formality 
which had then impressed Ellie with a consciousness of the vast 
distance between them, were all gone, and the equality he now 
acknowledged, and the cordial interest he seemed to feel in their 
plan, relieved them of the ungrateful embarrassment which had 
previously involved their intercourse, so that each was more 
pleased than ever with the other. Mr. Harmstead appeared to 
be agreeably surprised; he had made a discovery, as it were; 
he had found in his unpretending and retiring neighbor not only 
an equal but in many respects a superior. 

The following Monday morning Ellie began the school. Fif- 
teen or twenty as rude and unpromising urchins as one could 
well imagine; assembled, with all varieties of books, and each 
desirous of selecting his own studies, and pursuing them accord- 
ing to his own inclinations. But over the little troubles and 
vexations I must not linger—the duties she undertook were 
easy to her, and daily grew more pleasant as she proceeded. 

The window by her desk looked out on Willowdale, and 


3384 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


daily, almost hourly, she saw its master; and this was not all 
sometimes he visited the school—for the interest he felt in the 
children ostensibly, but it was an interest of sudden growth, 
and one that had certainly never been so evinced before. Some- 
times these visits lasted till the school was dismissed, and then 
Mr. Harmstead would walk home with Ellie; at first only to 
the gate—but occasionally it was cold, and he would go in for 
a few minutes’ chat with Zoe, and the warmth of the great 
wood fire; and gradually the few minutes were protracted to 
hours. | 

In the eyes of Ellie the world assumed a new aspect; there 
is no need that I should explain the reason ; but the hope which 
gleamed before her eyes was wavering and uncertain, some- 
times all brightness and beauty, and then dim and almost blot- 
ted out. Mr. Harmstead came often to the school, I said— 
often to the home of Mr. Hadly—and at length, though he 
talked not of love, his manner was no longer that of an ordina- 
ry friend. But he said little that was definite. Now he and 
Ellie were to have a cottage somewhere, and Ellie’s tastes 
with regard to style of architecture and size were consulted, 
and Zoe was laughingly asked how she could get along without 
them. Then, again, Ellie was a mere child in his estimation, 
and he assumed a patronizing and fatherly tone, saying, “If you 
were my daughter, dear Ellie,” and the like. Then perhaps a 
week or two weeks would go by, in which he would come nei- 
ther to the school nor the house, passing both as though utterly 
unconscious of their neighborhood. 

At such times, the school hours were monotonous and weary ; 
yet the necessity to think of the children’s lessons kept them 
from the utter dreariness with which they dragged from twi- 
light into the deep night at home. In such evenings, the sisters 
would sit in the firelight, silent, but impatient of every. sound 
not made by the expected foot-fall, till it grew too late to listen 
or to hope. Then they would repeat the last night’s conversa- 
tion, and finally, saying something must have occurred to pre- 
vent his coming—that he would surely happen another time, 
gather hope out of despair, and falling asleep to the song of 
the cricket, awake to new watches and new disappointments, 


. 


A WINTER'S CHANGES, 835 


Thus the winter wore by, and when the verdure of spring first 
crept upon the boughs, there came new troubles and regrets. 

One evening, late in March, as they sat together in their 
accustomed places, a few smouldering branches on the hearth, 
and the window a little raised for adrhission of fresh air—for it 
was growing warm, though fire might scarcely be dispensed 
with—a step was heard on the threshold. A quick interchange 
of glances, a thrill, and then surprise and a sinking of the 
heart—the visitor was Mr. William Martin. 

Zoe, less disappointed and of more natural gaiety, tried to 
seem pleased, but Ellie made no such pretence or effort, and 
retiring to the window, looked out on the gloomy settling down 
of night. Weeks had elapsed since she had met Mr. Harm- 
stead, or since he had evinced the slightest recollection of her, 
for she had often seen him pass the house, and sometimes 
encountered his glances, as cold as he would have bestowed on 
any other acquaintance, in whom he neither had nor wished to 
have a particular interest. 

Dismal looked the world before her: the clouds, with torn 
edges, flew fast across the sky, and now and then the half moon 
shed a melancholy light along the naked landscape. The rain 
had been falling for several days, and through the soaked 
valleys slender stalks were beginning to push their way. Close 
under the window, the broad leaves of the flags and spikes of 
daffodils, and the pale pink shoots of the sweetbrier, were 
visible, and along the ridges that stretched away to the woods 
the wheat was growing green. The world is bright or sorrow- 
ful according to the temper in which we view it, and had the 
sun hung in the blue middle heavens of June, the hours would 
have seemed to Ellie no less sad. 

Wrapped away in her own thoughts, she heard not at first 
anything that was said. At length Mr. William asked her if 
she had heard the news, and receiving a negative answer, in- 
formed her that Mr. Harmstead had sold his farm, and was 
shortly to return to his native city—as rumor said, to be mar- 
ried. 

Ellie saw now how much of the light of hope had been 
shining round her. The intruding visitor had innocently made 


336 : OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


himself hateful: she wished he would go away, and that she 
might never again see him. How interminable the hours he 
stayed! but he went at last, and her choking thoughts found 
utterance. 

Zoe spoke more sanguinely than she felt. It was not rea- 
sonable to suppose Mr. Harmstead had so suddenly disposed of 
Willowdale; and if that were true, he might neither be going 
to leave Clovernook nor to be married—for have not all his 
actions betrayed a love for you? 

“But he never said he loved me,” Ellie answered, hoping 
still for comfort. 

“What are words 2?” 

“ Witnesses—only witnesses.” : 

And how many contracts the most real have been broken, 
because there were no witnesses of them! 


THE END OF THE HISTORY. 337 


THE END OF THE HISTORY, 


A few weeks of alternate hope and fear went by ; and through 
the freshening airs, and under the light of the full moon, Ellie 
was walking, but not now alone. Willowdale was sold, and 
Mr. Harmstead was going away, but in the autumn he would 
return, and other cottages might be as beautiful as that he had 
lived in so many years. Meantime there would be solace of 
his absence in his letters, if dear Ellie would permit him to 
write to her. What a new phase there was in the world, how 
all life’s burdens were lifted away from her heart. When the 
long walk was over, they lingered yet at the gate, unwilling to 
part. That the happiness of the girl was in his keeping, he 
knew right well; that he could give his into her keeping he 
must have felt, for that she was very dear to him I have no 
doubt; and yet—and yet 

The hush of the deep night was around them; both stood 
silent, and seeming for some cause impressed solemn! y—whether 
for the same cause, I cannot tell. “ How beautiful the world is,” 
Ellie said, at length, more perhaps to break the silence than to 
give utterance to her thought. “‘ Now and here,” answered the 
lover, if lover he were, “I would die for you—it is a fit time 
now.” “Not so,” Ellie replied; “life in its gloomiest days 
has seemed to me a blessing—how much more so now ; if you 
would die for me, why not live for me ?” 

“Live for you! I must tell you a story,” he replied myste- 
riously. 

“ What is it?” 

“ Not now—I will tell you another time—to-night you are 
not prepared.” And suddenly dropping the hand around which 

15 


838 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


his clasp had been weakening for some moments, abruptly 
turned away. 

“When shall I see you again?” Ellie asked, trembling, half 
earnest, half hesitating. 

“ Soon, very soon—perhaps to-morrow night,” and turning 
back the parting kiss was given calmly, and as one might be- 
stow a benediction—and Ellie was alone—restless, unsatisfied, 
wretched. | 

The next day came and went, and other days and other 
weeks, but Mr. Harmstead came not. All the while she heard 
reports of his movements that were anything but agreeable to 
her—sometimes he was just on the eve of departure—some- 
times already gone, without having said good-bye to her. At 
last she knew positively that he was going, and as she sat with 
Zoe on the piazza, listening to the tinkling of the water, and the 
mournful song of the whip-poor-will, they heard through the 
thickening foliage that shut the road from view, clear ringing 
tones, that both were quick to recognise. 

Mr. Harmstead was come to say good-bye, and was accom- 
panied by Mr. Martin. He neither found nor sought to find 
an opportunity of conversing alone with Ellie; he seemed to 
have nothing to say to her any more than to Zoe or to his com- 
panion ;—in fact, he seemed to esteem them alike; he spoke of 
the future, of returning, and of the pleasure it would give him 
to meet them again, but he said not to Ellie that he would 
either live for her, or die for her; and when the parting mo- 
ment came, he took her hand as he would have taken that of 
Martin, saying only, when he saw the sorrow she could not 
conceal, “One summer is soon gone, and then we shall meet ;” 
but in a moment he added, “you will probably be married 
then.” Ellie said not “yes” or “no,” but pronouncing a fare- 
well with as much ulcer as she could assume, went aside 
into the darkness. 

Zoe had no words of comfort—she felt that she might as well 
say Peace to the winds, or reason with despair. 

It is in vain to attempt description of the anguish of that 
soul in which faith is crushed, and hope trembling and fading 
into death. Reaching across the graves of buried love are the 


THE END OF THE HISTORY. 339 


hands of the angels—as we go with offerings of flowers, to the 
sepulchre, we hear sweet voices saying, “not here, but risen,” 
but when we mourn the falsehood of the living, there is nothing 
on earth or in heaven to which we may bind our hearts; the 
past must be cast away, and there is no future; we can pray 
only for the dust to stifle the bleeding of our hearts, for eternal 
silence to shut from us the mockeries of the world. Our feet 
would be weary on the green hills of heaven in the first pas- 
sionate consciousness of our desolation, and our lips parched by 
the sweet waters of life, if all that made an Eden to us here 
were wanting there. 

The days passed wearily; spring ripened into summer, and 
summer faded into fall. Ellie had continued to teach the school, 
faithfully discharging all her duties, and trying to build up a 
new interest in life. In the shadow of the woods, near where 
the children played, she might be seen, thoughtfully walking to 
and fro, or leaning against the trunk of a tree, her book held 
listlessly, or her needle forgotten. 

In October her term would be finished, and she pleased her- 
self with making little plans as to what she would then do— 
the many books she would obtain for solace during the long 
winter hours; then, too, Mr. Harmstead was coming—and she 
would look less plain and old fashioned than he had always seen 
her, which would be some gratification. And so the time wore 
on, and the month came at last. The school was over, and the 
trifle, so wearily gained, divided with Zoe, who was to be 
married. . 

One hazy afternoon they went to the city to make long- 
talked of purchases. The bridal dress and veil had been 
selected, and Ellie, smiling sadly, said she would procure black 
ones for herself, when her attention was attracted toward a gay 
equipage, and the smiling and seemingly joyous recognition of 
Mr. Harmstead, was followed in a moment by glimpses of a 
stately woman by his side, the countenance beautiful, but its 
expression proud and half pitying. 7 

Poor Ellie had thought. herself stronger; but she knew not 
till then how much of hope had lingered in her heart. How 
should she know whither she went? How think of the miserable 


840 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


pittance for which she had toiled? When Zoe arrested the cur- 
rent of her thought, by asking what she proposed for herself, 
she replied, after a moment’s silence, “ Nothing ;” and opening 
the hand which had held all her worldly treasure, Zoe perceived 
that the purse was gone. 

When the winter winds hung moaning on the casement, Ellie 
sat by the homestead hearth alone; but as the sympathy, to 
which she had been accustomed, was shut away from her, and 
as nature withdrew herself, spreading chill and blight in all her 
beautiful borders, she necessarily fell back on herself, and in 
herself found a greater sufficiency of resources than she had 
hoped. 


It has always seemed to me one of the most beautiful provi- 
sions of Providence, that circumstances, however averse we be 
to them at first, close about us presently like waves, and we 
would hardly unwind ourselves from their foldings, and stand- 
ing out alone, say, let it be thus or thus, if it were possible. 
When the morning comes through her white gates, lifting her 
eyes smilingly on us as she trails her crimson robes through the 
dew, we would fain have it morning all the day. But when 
noon, holding in leash the shadows, goes lazily winking along 
the hill tops, and the arms of labor rest a little from their work, 
where the fountain bubbles or the well lies cool, it seems a 
good season, and we would keep back the din that must shortly 
ruffle its placid repose. And when the phantoms of twilight 
troop out of the dim woods, with the first stars, whether the 
moon have all her golden filling, or hang like a silver ring in the 
blue arching of the sky, the time seems the most beautiful cf 
all, and we are ready to say to the shadows, crouch back a little, 
let the ashen gray prevail. Night broods over the world, deep 
and solemn; away above us the still constellations go on their 
way, and throwing earthward wildering beams like golden lad- 
ders, whereon our thoughts may climb to heaven; clouds, with 
dark ridges, cut the blue, or build a wilderness of black along 
the edges of the horizon, or lie against each other, like squad- 
rons in the offing of a mighty sea; and whether the winds run 
laughingly up and down the hills, or kennelled among the thick 


THE END OF THE HISTORY, 841 


forests, whine dismally and low, night seems a blessed time—a 
season of thought, or of dreams, or of peaceful sleep. 

And so with the various seasons of the year. May, with her 
green lap full of sprouting leaves and bright blossoms, her song- 
birds making the orchards and meadows vocal, and rippling 
streams and cultivated gardens; June, with full-blown roses 
and humming-bees, plenteous meadows and wide cornfields, 
with embattled lines rising thick and green; August, with 
reddened orchards and heavy-headed harvests of grain; Octo- 
ber, with yellow leaves and swart shadows; December, pal- 
aced in snow, and idly. whistling through his numb fingers— 
All have their various charm; and in the rose-bowers of sum- 
mer, and as we spread our hands before the torches of winter, 
we say, joyfully, “Thou hast made all things beautiful in their 
time.” We sit around the fireside, and the angel, feared and 
dreaded by us all, comes in, and one is taken from our 
midst—hands that have caressed us, locks that have fallen over 
us like a bath of beauty, are hidden beneath shroud-folds—we 
see the steep edges of the grave, and hear the heavy rumble of 
the clods; and in the burst of passionate grief, it seems that we 
can never still the crying of our hearts. But the days rise and 
set, dimly at first, and seasons come and go, and by little and 
little the weight rises from the heart, and the shadows drift from 
before the eyes, till we feel again the spirit of gladness, and see 
again the old beauty of the world. The circle is narrowed, so 
that the vacant seat reminds us no longer of the lost, and we 
laugh and jest as before, and at last marvel where there was 
any place for the dead. ‘Traitors that we are to the past! Yet 
it is best and wisest so. Why should the children of time be 
looking backward where there is nothing more to do? Why 
should not the now and the here be to us of all periods the best, 
till the future shall be the present and time eternity ? 


So much of the history of a humble life as I proposed to 
write, I have finished; of Ellie’s future, of self-abnegation, of 
humble and quiet usefulness, it is needless to speak. On her 
forehead she has taken sorrow’s crown of sorrow; and as she 
goes about her household cares, giving, as much as may be, her 


342 OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. 


soul to peace, no one dreams of the inward bleeding of that 
wound which, only the dust of death will wholly stifle. Some- 
times she builds her thoughts into careless rhymes, illuminated 
with the light of setting suns; but when with her touching 
delineations the fountains of feeling are troubled, no one sus- 
pects the heart and life whence they have come. Mr. Jame- 
son goes to see her, now and then, telling her that there is no 
need cessity that she should live so much alone; and that his 
woman thinks her a pattern of excellence; and Mr. William 
Martin calls too, sometimes, and reiterates his invitations ; but 
though she appreciates their kind intentions, she never extends 
her walks beyond the church or the graveyard; but often as she 
passes Willowdale, she repeats the line of England’s gloomy 
bard—so simple, yet containing so much— 


Thou art nothing—all are nothing now. 


THE END, 


JUST PUBLISHED, 


LYRA, AND OTHER POEMS. 


By ALICE CAREY, 


AUTHOR OF “‘CLOVERNOOK,” AND ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF “POEMS BY 
ALICE AND PHBE CAREY.” — 


In one volume, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cts. 


“ Whether poetry be defined as the rhythmical creation of beauty, as passion or elo- 
quence in harmonious numbers, or as thought and feeling manifested by processes of 
the imagination, Alice Carey is incontestably and incomparably the first living American 
poetess— fresh, indigenous, national—rich beyond precedent in suitable and sensuous im- 
agery—ol the finest and highest qualities of feeling, and such powers of creation as the 
Almighty has seen’ fit to bestow but rarely or in far-separated countries... . The forms 
of her imagination are clothed with spoils she herself has brought’from the fields.—The 
feelings displayed in her poems are in an eminent degree fruits of her own experience. 
In all literature there is nothing in every respect more certainly genuine. .... It may ea- 
sily be inferred from many of her compositions who are her favorite poets-—especially 
that Chaucer and Milton are lovingly studied by her; but it is impossible to deny that 
she has original and extraordinary powers, or that the elements of genius are poured 
forth in her verses with an astonishing richness and prodigality.”—Boston Transcript. 

“Some of these poems are truly great. Miss Carey is among the best of living poets, 
There are startling intimations of power, low, vague murmurings of a magic voice, 
everywhere to be detected, which leave the impression of genius undeveloped, and yet 
to shine forth. A deep, meJlow feeling, the chords of which are susceptible of heaven- 
ly music, a power and sweetness of versification, and a familiar touch of those transcen- 
dent truths to which genius alone has access, are qualities of the true poct. We feel 
the spell the moment we enter the sphere of her thought.”—New York Evangelist. 

‘Miss Carey possesses a lively and delicate fancy; her mind teems with rural im- 
ages, which have been suggested by a genuine passion for nature ; she avails herself 
with spontaneous facility, of the everyday sights and sounds of the country for the 
purposes of poetry: throwing the charm of a graceful ideality over the homeliest de- 
tails of household life; her verse flows in a vein of pure and tender sentiment; while 
she possesses a sufficient variety and strength of expression to do justice to her highest 
inspirations, In sweetness, in pathos, in tenderness, in the simple melody of versifica- 
tion, she will compare favorably with Mrs Browning, or with any other living poetess. 
She is always calm, reverent, and subdued.”—New York Daily Tribune. 

“ These are the sweetest and most beautiful poems we have ever read. When once 
taken up the volume must be finished. There is something so charmingly rich, so 
delightfully enchanting, yet so simple and natural in its contents, that they take right 
hold of the mind and heart and leave an impression for ever. Alice Carey is no common 
author, Whatever she writes, in prose or poetry, contains so many strong points of 
originality, of real genius, of weil-cultivated and fertile imagination, that it may be justly 
said she writes for immortality. She isa jewel in the casket of American literature, that 
dims the lustre of the most precious in that of any other nation.”— Syracuse Daily Journal, 

“The author holds an honorable place in the front rank of our poets, and both here 
and in Europe is esteemed one of the sweetest and most pathetic and tender living 
writers. In many of these poems we find instances of the most exquisite versification, 
combined frequently with descriptive powers that successfully rival Bryant in his own 
realm, and distance every other writer among us. Indeed, there is scarcely a poem in 
this collection that does not sparkle with pure gems.”— Albany State Register. 

“The genuine inspiration of poetic feeling, ... replete with tenderness and beauty, 
earnestness and truthful simplicity, and all the attributes of a powerful imagination and 
vivid fancy. We know of no superior to Miss Carey among the female authors of this 
country.”—New York Journal of Commerce. 

“To say that Alice Carey is -what Milton would have been, had Milton been a wo- 
man,’ we can not regard as extravagant praise. Her poems have little in common 
with the mass of verses by her sex. She has the strength of the old masters of song, 
with all the sweetness of a woman. She has a wealth of imagery and a felicity in the 
description of nature rarely met.”—Portland Transcript. 

“Alice Carey’s book is full of beautiful thoughts; there is draught after draught of 
pure pleasure for the lover of sweet, tender fancies, and imagery which captivates, 
while it enforces truth. It is difficult to read Miss Carey’s poems without being drawn 
toward her, and thinking that those must be happy who are loved by her; and this is 
one reason why we call her poems feminine.”—New York Courier and Inquirer. 

“ «Lyra and other Poems,’ just published py Redfield, attracts everywhere, a remark- 
able degree of attention. A dozen of the leading journals, and many eminent critics, 
have pronounced the authoress the greatest poetess living.”—New York Mirror. 


JUST PUBLISHED, 


IS A 
APLC RIYA GE: 


BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO’. 


In one volume, 12mo., cloth, price $1.00. Second Edition. 


‘‘ Miss Chesebro’ has conquered a high place in a difficult sphere of literary creation. 
Without indulging in superfluous comparisons, we tell her that she need not envy the 
position of any female writer in this country. Her vigorous originality is a pledge of 
ability for future triumphs, But if she shall leave no other memorial of her gifted 
nature, it is no mean fame to have been the writer of ‘Isa’s Pi}grimage.’ "—New York 
Daily Tribune. 

“The character of Isa is unique and extraordinary, requiring a powerful imagina- 
tion to conceive, and a master-pen to portray. The style is vigorous as well as luxu- 
riant. argumentative as well as imaginative, and carries a wild and weird spell to the 
heart of the reader.”— Home Journal. 

“To many the book will be merely a powerfully-wrought fiction, which they will 
read at a grasp, and fling aside when they have gulped the denouement, as they do the 
scores of novels which are constantly pouring from the press ; but to all who think, as 
well as read, it will prove something more and better.”—Albany Daily State Register. 

“The author has drawn a melancholy picture illustrative of the fallibility of human 
judgment, and her tale, rightly understood, is a moral lesson of no inconsiderable 
force,”— Boston Journal. 

“The writer of this volume, we believe, had high intentions of doing a great and 
good thing: it has marks of genius, truth, and feeling in it, and much of it is greatly 
to our mind.”—New York Observer. 

“This is a work of more ambitious aim than that of the generality of brief works of 
fiction. ‘The character of the heroine is powerfully sustained, the subordinate charac- 
ters well developed, and the work elevated and healthy in tone.”—Literary World. 

“She evidently possesses great facility with the pen, and bids fair to make rapid 
progress in the path of letters. From a perusal of this new work, we have no hesita- 
tion in saying that she possesses a comprehensive, inventive, and brilliant mind, capa- 
ble of conceiving strange scenes and positions, and reasoning upon them in sparkling 
language.”— True Democrat. 

“The Pilgrimage is fraught throughout with scenes of thrilling interest—romantic, 
yet possessing a naturalness that seems to stamp them as real; the style is flowing and 
easy, chaste and beautiful.”— Troy Daily Times. 

‘‘ Miss Chesebro’ is evidently a thinker—she skims not the mere surface of life, but 
plunges boldly into the hidden mysteries of the spirit, by which she is warranted in 
making her startling revelations of human passion.”— Christian Freeman. 

“There comes out in this book the evidence of an inventive mind, a cultivated taste, 
an exquisite sensibility, and a deep knowledge of human nature.”— Albany Argus. 

“It is a charming book, pervaded by a vein of pure ennobling thought.”—Troy Whig. 
. There is no one who will doubt that this is a courageous and able work, displaying 

genius and depth of feeling, and striking at a high and noble aim.”"—N Y. Evangelist. 

‘There is a fine vein of tenderness running through the story, which is peculiarly 
one of passion and sentiment.”—Arthur’s Home Gazette, 

‘“We have here a picture of the pilgrimage of life, made by one who has climbed the 
hill sufficiently high to make a retrospect of the past, give much of actual experience, 
and dart a glance along the vista lying before. Whoever follows her attentively 
through this volume will be the better fitted for the journey which a!l on earth must 
travel.”— Christian Intelligencer. 

“This is the production of a writer of considerable fancy, and good descriptive 
powers.”—Richmond Religious Herald. 

““She holds a ready pen, and the pages evince a woman of deep thought.”— Boston 

p yP pag Pp & 
Evehing Gazette, 


NEW AND FASCINATING WORK. 


MEN AND WOMEN 


OF THE 


EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, 


BY ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 
With beautifully-engraved Portraits of Louis XV. and Mad. de Pompadour, 


In Two Vols. 12mo., on extra superfine paper, 450 pages each, 
Cloth, Price $2 50. 


ContEeNntTs.—Dufresny, Fontenelle, Marivaux, Piron, The Abbé Prévost, Gentil-Bernard, 
Florian, BouMlers, Diderot, Grétry, Rivarol, Louis XV., Greuze, Boucher, The Van- 
loos, Lantara, Watteau, La Motte, Déhle, Abbé Trublet, Buffon, Dorat, Cardinal de 
Bernis, Crébillon the Gay, Marie Antoinette, Madame de Pompadour, Vadé, Mdile. Ca- 
margo, Mdlle. Clairon, Madame de la Popeliniére, Sophie Arnould, Crébillon the 
Tragic, Mdlle. Guimard, Three Pages from the Life of Dancourt, A Promenade in the 
Palais-Royal, the Chevalier de la Clos. 


“ A more fascinating book than this rarely issues from the teeming press. Fascina- 
ting in its subject; fascinating in its style; fascinating in its power to lead the reader 
into castle-building of the most gorgeous and bewitching description. ‘The men and 
women of the last century, whose characteristics and habits of life the author makes his 
theme. are French men and women. The Court of Louis XV. is the ground—not classic 
ground, not romantic, far from hallowed, and yet enchanted—upon which he treads, 
His step befits the place. He handles his subject daintily, elegantly, and with an appa- 
rent consciousness of the bewildering effect he is producing.”—Courier and Enquirer. 

“ A Book OF BooKs.—Two deliciously spicy volumes, that are a perfect bonne bouche 
for an epicure in reading. wre just been published by Redfield. They are called ‘The 
Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century,’ translated from the French of Arséne 
Houssaye. Anecdotes, gossip, history, biography, are adimirably mingled, and, in the 
clear, bright, sunny English they have been transplanted into, they form as agreeable a 
book as the season can show.”—Home Journal. 

“ A combination of the light graces of literature with a profound philosophic insight, 
such as is rarely found but among French writers, is essential in an historian of the eigh- 
teenth century. We find such a combination in the brilliant work, the ‘Men and Wo- 
men of the Eighteenth Century,’ by Arséne Houssaye.’—Literary World. 

“ In the volumes of Arséne Houssaye before us, these gay but unsubstant'al shadows 
take flesh and blood, and become the Men and Women —the living realities of the Eigh- 
teenth Century.”—International Magazine. 

“ These two beautiful volumes are worthy the perusal of every intelligent reader. Mr. 
Houssaye has opened a new path in the common every-day field of literature, his sub- 
jects are of the deepest interest and he handles them with an accomplished ‘pen.”— 
Buffalo Daily Ledger. 

“They indeed furnish a most impressive picture of France, during that century, as 
seen in her princes, philosophers, poets, painters, actors, dancers, &c..—Boston Traveler, 

“It presents by far the best portrait of the prominent figures of the age to which it re- 
fers, that we know of in the English language.”—Evening Post. i 

“ In these volumes are contained the sketches of the beaux esprits of the reign of Louis 
XV.—a period notorious for the profligacy of the court, as it was remarkable for its in- 
an aay literary coteries, which gathered the wit and talent of the age.”—Boston Jour- 
nal, 

« They reveal the familiar life of the time, disclose the inmost traits of thought and the 
hidden motives of action, and furnish in all respects a glass in which we may view the 

ast age."—Brooklyn Evening Star, 

“ While they are true to the history of the times, and the men and women of the times, 
they are as entertaining as the stories of the Arabian nights.”"—Bunker Hill Aurora. 

“The author has laid his hand upon the dead heart of that age, reanimated the illustri- 
ous dead who adorn it, and brought out before us of the present century — for inspec- 
tion, admiration, and criticism— its poets, philosophers, statemen, authors, artists, and 
wits.”—Albany State Register. 

“ We think, indeed, that we have never met with anything that carries us so entirely 
into the interior life of French society in that age.”—Albany Express. 


JUST PUBLISHED, 


CHARACTERS IN THE GOSPEL 


ILLUSTRATING 


PHASES OF CHARACTER AT THE PRESENT DAY, 
By Rev. E. H. ‘CHAPIN. 


One Volume, 12mo., Cloth—Priocn 50 cts. 


SUBJECTS. 


I, John the Baptist ; the Reformer, 
II. Herod; the Sensualist, 
Iii. Thomas; the Skeptic. 
IV. Pilate; the Man of the World. 
V. Nicodemus; the Seeker after Religion. 
VI. The Sisters of Bethany. 


“Each of the persons here named is taken as a representative, or type, of a class still 
found in the world, whose characteristics the preacher draws out and illustrates for the 
instruction, reproof, or correction of his hearers and readers. ‘The work is done with 
a skilful hand, and ina style attractive and impressive. The book furnishes not only 
agreeable, but very useful and instructive reading.”— Boston Traveller, 


“The preacher has selected the most striking traits in each character delineated, as 
typical of classes at the present day. The practical nature and perpetual freshness of 
the Gospel narrative are strikingly exhibited, in the parallels he draws between the 
times therein described and our own.”—Journal of Commerce. 


“They are forcible in style, vigorous in thought, and earnest in spirit; and, although 
there is much in it from which we would most decidedly dissent, the book may be 
profitably perused by every mind of common discrimination.”— Courier & Enquirer. 


“‘As we read his pages, the reformer, the sensualist, the skeptic, the man of the 
world, the seeker, the sister of charity and of faith, stand out from the Scriptures, and 
join themselves with our own living world. The volume is very instructive, eloquent, 
and quickening, full of thoughts and purposes most vital to our liberal views of 
Christianity.”— Christian Enquirer. 

“The author of this work is well known as an eloquent lecturer, and those who read 
this volume will not be disappointed in their expectations, It is intended to help the 
reader to realize the vivid truthfulness and the perpetual freshness of the gospel narra- 
tive. While we dissent from some of his opinions, we recommend it as an able and 
eloquent work.”— Albany Express. 


‘Mr. Chapin has an easy, graceful style, neatly touching the outlines of his pictures, 
and giving great consistency and beauty to the whole. The reader will find admirable 
descriptions, some most wholesome lessons, and a fine spirit. He must not, however, 
look for deeply spiritual views, nor for an estimate of men and deeds by the orthodox 
standard. They are rhetorically very creditable, and deal with religious truth with an 
earnestness not always to be found in the writer’s denomination.”—N, Y. Evangelist, 


“Mr. Chapin is a graphic painter. He writes in a forcible, bold. and fearless man- 
ner; and while we can not accord with all his views, many suggestive thoughts and 
useful reflections may be derived from its pages.” —Religious Herald ( Richmond, Va. ) 


“These discourses have been delivered by Mr. Chapin from the pulpit. and all who 
have listened to the speaker can attest to the charm which his eloquence throws around : 
any subject that he handles. These discourses teem with beautiful imagery, and 
abound with strong, pungent truths, and whoever reads one will read the book 
through.”—Olivé Branch ( Boston, ) 


MISS CHESEBRO’S NEW WORK. 


DREAM-LAND BY DAYLIGHT; 


A 


PANORAMA OF ROMANCE. 
By CAROLINE CHESEBRO. 


Illustrated by Dartzy. One vol., 12mo. 


\ 


“These simple and beautiful stories are all highly endued with an exquisite 
perception of natural beauty, with which is combined an appreciative sense of its 
relation to the highest moral emotions.”—Albany State Register. 


“ There is a fine vein of pure and holy thought pervading every tale in the vol- 
ume; and every lover of the beautiful and true will feel while perusing it that 
he is conversing with a kindred spirit." — Albany Evening Allas. 


“The journey through Dream-Land will be found full of pleasure; and when 
one returns from it, he will have his mind filled with good suggestions for practi- 
cal life.” —Rochester Democrat. 

“The anticipations we have had of this promised book are more than realized. 
It is a collection of beautiful sketches, in which the cultivated imagination of the 
authoress has interwoven the visions of Dream-Land with the realities of life.” 

Ontario Messenger. 


“The dedication, in its sweet and touching purity of emotion, is itself an ear- 
nest of the many ‘blessed household voices’ that come up from the heart's clear 
depth, throughout the book.”"—Ontario Repository. 


“ Gladly do we greet this floweret in the field of our literature, for it is fragrant 
with sweets and bright with hues that mark it to be of Heaven's own planting.” 
Courter and Enquirer. 
“There is a depth of sentiment and feeling not ordinarily met with, and some 
of the noblest faculties and affections of man’s nature are depicted and illustrated 
by the skilful pen of the authoress.”—Churchman. 


« This collection of stories fully sustains her previous reputation, and also gives 

@ brilliant promise of futare eminence in this department of literature.” 
Tribune. 

‘‘ We find in this volume unmistakeable evidences of originality of mind, an 
almost superfluous depth of reflection for the department of composition to which 
it is devoted, a rare facility in seizing the multiform aspects of nature, and a still 
rarer power of giving them the form and hue of imagination, without destroying 
their identity.”"—Harper’s Magazine. 


“Jn all the productions of Miss Chesebro’s pen is evident a delicate perception 
of the relation of natural beauty to the moral emotions, and a deep love of the true 
and the beautiful in art and nature.’”—Day-Book. 


JUST PUBLISHED, 


- THE LADIES OF THE COVENANT. 


MEMOIRS OF 
DISTINGUISHED SCOTTISH FEMALE CHARACTERS, 
Embracing the Period of the Covenant and the Persecution, 


By THE REV. JAMES ANDERSON. 
In One Volume, 12mo., cloth, Prick $1.25—extra gilt, gilt edges $1.75. 


OPINIONS OF THE PRESsg., 


“It is written with great spirit and a hearty sympathy, and abounds in incidents of 
more than a romantic interest, while the type of piety it discloses is the noblest and 
most elevated.”—N. ¥, Evangelist. 

“ Seldom has there been a more interesting volume than this in our hands. Stories 
of Scottish suffering for the faith have always thrilled us; but here we have the me 
moirs of distinguished female characters, embracing the period of the Covenant and the 
Persecution, with such tales of heroism, devotion, trials, triumphs, or deaths. as rouse 
subdue, and deeply move the heart of the reader.”—N. Y. Observer, 


“Many a mother in Israel will have her faith strengthened, and her zeal awakened, 
and her courage animated afresh by the example set before her—by the cloud of wit 
hesses of her own sex, who esteemed everything—wealth, honor, pleasure, ease, and 
life itself—vastly inferior to the grace of the Gospel; and who freely offered themselves 
and all that they had, to the sovereign disposal of Him who had called them with an 
holy calling ; according to his purpose and grace.”— Richmond, (Va.) Watchman and 
Observer. 

“The Scotch will read this book because it commemorates their noble country wo- 
mer. ; Presbyterians will like it, because it records the endurance and triumphs of their . 
faith ; and the ladies will read it, as an interesting memorial of what their sex has done 
in trying times for truth and liberty.”—Cincinnati Central Christian Herald. 

“Jt is a record which, while it confers honor on the sex, will elevate the heart, and 
strengthen it to the better performance of every duty.”—Richmond (Va.) Religious 
Herald, 

“The Descendants of these saints are among us, in this Pilgrim land, and we earn- 
estly commend this book to their perusal.”—Plymoth Old Colony Memorial, 

“There are pictures of endurance, trust, and devotion, in this volume of illustrious 
suffering, which are worthy of a royal setting.”— Ontario Repository. 

“They abound with incidents and anecdotes illustrative of the times and we need 
scarcely say are deeply interesting to all who take an interest in the progress of chris. 
tianity.”— Boston Journal. 

- “Mr. Anderson has treated his subject ably , and has set forth in strong light the en 
during faith and courage of the wives and daughters of the Covenanters."——N. Y. Albion 

“It isa book of great attractiveness, having not only the freshness of novelty but 
every element of historical interest — Courier and Enquirer. 

“The author is a clergyman of the Scottish kirk, and has executed his undertaking 
with that spirit and fulness which might be expected from one enjoying the best advan- 
tages for the discovery of obscure points in the history of Scotland, and the warmes* 
sympathy with the heroines of his own creed.”— Commercial Advertiser. 


BRONCOHITIS, 
AND KINDRED DISEASES. 


By W. W. HALL, A. M., M. D., New York. 


In Language adapted to Common Readers. 
SEVENTH EDITION. 


In one Volume, 12mo., over 250 pages. Price One Dollar in Muslin: or sent 
at the same price in paper binding, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
States. 


CONTENTS. 


What is Throat-Ail ? 
W bat is Bronchitis ? 
What is Consumption ? 
What are the Symptoms of Throat-Ail? 
W hat are the Symptoms of Bronchitis ? 
W hat are the Symptoms of Consumption ? 
How do persons get Throat-ail ? 
How do persons get Bronchitis ? 
How do persons get Consumption ? 
History of a case of Throat-Ail. 
History of a case of Bronchitis. 
History of a case of Consumption. 
The Philosophy of Throat- Ail. 
The Philosophy of Bronchitis. 
The Philosophy of Consumption. 
Successful Treatment of Unseen Cases. 
Should Consumptive Persons go South ? 
Are Sea voyages beneficial ? 
W hat are the Advantages of Nitrate of Silver? 
W hat are the Advantages of Cod-Liver Oil? 
Influence of Dyspeptic Diseases. 
Is Consumption communicable ? 
Advocacy of its Curability by Marshall Hall, John Hunter, Rokitansky, 
Sir Charles Scudamore, Sir James Clark, Dunglison, Stokes, Carswell, Evans, 
Laennec, Fournet, Rogee, Dr. James Johnson, Mr. Wakely, Louis, Cowan, Dr. 
I. Parish, Dr. A. Combe, Weatherhead, Hays. Medical Journal, London Lancet, 
Braithwait’s Retrospect, Ranking’s Abstract. Cyclopedia of Practical Medicine. 
Tables of Food, Time and Easiness of Digestion, its Nutritiveness. 
ASTHMA, CROUP, Nature, Causes, and Principles of Treatment. 
Spirometrical Observations. 
Numerous Cases given in Illustration of the Views advanced. 
Chapter to Theological Students and Clergymen. 


JUST PUBLISHED, 


LAYS OF THE SCOTTISH CAVALIERS, 
By WILLIAM E. AYTOUN, 


PROFESSOR OF LITERATURE AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH, 
AND EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE. 


One Volume, 12mo., Cloth—Price $1. 


“These strains belong to stirring and pathetic events, and until poetic descriptions 
of them shall be disregarded, we think Mr. Aytoun’s productions well calculated to 
maintain a favorite place in public estimation.”—Literary Gazette. 

«The ballads in question are strongly tinged by deep national feeling, and remind the 
reader of Macaulay’s ‘ Lays of Ancient Rome;’ and, from the more picturesque nature 
of the subject, are, perhaps, even still more highly colored. ‘Edinburgh after Flod- 
den,’ ‘the Death of Montrose,’ and ‘the Battle of Kiliecranke,’ are strains which Scotch- 
men will not willingly let die.’—Men of the Time in 1852. 

“ Choosing from the ample range of Scottish history, occasions which are near and 
dear to the popular sympathy of his country, Mr Aytoun, confident of the force of 
strong convictions and a direct appeal to the elementary emotions of the human heart, 
has presented us eight noble lays—clear in feeling, simple and direct in expression, 
and happily varied and variable in measure, which will, we are confident, outlive many, 


if not all, of his more pretentious and ornamented contemporaries.”—Lierary Wor 


ALSO, 


THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 


EDITED BY 


BON GAULTIER. 
One Volume, 12mo., Cloth—Price 75 cis. 


“Bon Gaultier himself, his wit, satire, and versification, remained a ‘Yarrow un- 
visited’ The opuscula of that humorous writer, somehow marvellously escaping the 
prehensile fingers of our publishers, were yet unknown to American readers ; though 
‘an occasional whiff and stray aroma of the choice volume had now and then transpired 
through the columns of a magazine or newspaper. 

« Bon Gaultier’s Book of Ballads is simply the wittiest and best thing of the kind since 
the Rejected Addresses. Its parodies of Lockhart (in the Spanish Ballads), of Tenny- 
son (his lovely sing-song puerilities), of Macaulay (the sounding Roman strain), of 
Moses (the ‘ puff poetical’), are, with a dozen others, in various ways, any of them 
equal to the famous Crabbe, and Scott, and Coleridge of the re-ascending Drury Lane.” 


Literary World. 


Manon Lescaut. 


Tor ABBE PREVOST. 


NARRATIVES 


OF 


SORCERY AND MAGIC; 
FROM THE MOST AUTHENTIC SOURCES. 


By THOMAS WRIGHT, A.M., F. R.A. ‘ 


In One Volume, 12mo., Cloth—Pricre $1.25. 


NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 


« This is one of the pleasantest books about witchcraft that we ever read ; 
and Mr. Wright tells his stories and conveys his information with so much 
spirit and good sense that we are sorry he has confined himself to only one 
department of a subject which he is very well able to treat as a whole. 
Mr. Wright has rewritten the criminal annals of witchcraft in a style per- 
fectly free from any important faults; and he has illustrated his narrative 
by rich collateral facts as could be acquired only by long familiarity with a 
peculiar and extensive branch of antiquarian learning. We do not see 
then that the fortunes of witchcraft have aught fo hope from any narrator 
who may attempt to supersede him.”—Athenaum. 


« This is a very curious and highly interesting book. It contains a series 
of popular stories of sorcery and magic (the first chiefly) and their victims, 
from the period of the middle ages down to that of the last executions for 
witchcraft in England and Aimerica. Mr. Wright tells these stories admi- 
rably ; and without marring their effect as illustrations of the respective 
phases of corrupt or imperfect civilization to which they were incident, his 
clear comments point the truth or philosophy of the individual case indepen- 
dent of its subjection to general causes or influences. The range of infor- 
mation in the book is extraordinarily wide, and it is popularly set forth 
throughout, without a touch of pedantry or a dull page.”—Ewaminer. 


«“ From this wide field Mr. Wright has selected two parts for illustration 
viz., sorcery and magic ; and must have devoted much reading and research 
to produce so comprehensive a view of them, not only in England and 
Scotland, but in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Sweden, and New 
England.” —Literary Gazeite. 


A NEW AND POPULAR VOLUMR. 


TALES AND TRADITIONS 


HUN GC LR VY 


BY THERESA PULSZKY. 


With a Portrait of the Author. 
In One Volume, Cloth—Price, $1 25. 


‘ue above contains, in addition to the English publication, a NEw PREFAcE, and 
aLEs, now first printed from the manuscript of the Author, who has a direct interest in 
the publication. 


CONTENTS. 
1. The Baron’s Daughter. 11. The Cloister of Manastir. 
2. The Castle of Zipsen. 12, Pan Twardowsky. 
3. Yanoshik, the Robber. 13. The Poor Tartar. 
4, The Free Shot. 14, The Maidens’ Castle. 
5. The Golden Cross of Korosfo. 15. The Hair of the Orphan Girl. 
6. The Guardians. 16. The Rocks of Lipnik. 
7. The Love of the Angels. 17. Jack, the Horse-Dealer. 
8. The Maid and the Genii. 18. Klingsohr of Hungary. 
9, Ashmodai, the Lame Demon. 19 Yanosh, the Hero. 
10, ‘The Nun of Rauchenbach, 20. The Hungarian Outlaws. 


21. Tradition of the Hungarian Race, 


“Mapame Purszxy is familiar with these traditions of the people, and has perfectly 
succeeded in getting them into an attractive form, with some purely original tales from 
her own pen "— Worcester National Agis. 

“The legends in this work are very beautiful, full of interest, varied and sparkling in 
style.”— Boston Olive Branch. 

“ Strikingly illustrative of the manners and customs that have prevailed in different 
periods of her history, it is written with graceful yet dignified freedom.”— Albany Arg. 

“The stories are of a wild and fanciful character, which will cause them to be read 
with interest by all, while they really throw light upon the early history and manners 
of Hungary.”— Albany Express. 

‘ Remarkably well written, and illustrative, in an eminent degree, of the different 
epochs in the history of Hungary, and present distinct phases of Hungarian life, painted 
in glowing colors, and interwoven with the vigorous play of a lively imagination.”— 
Albany Daily Register. 

“They are tersely and descriptively written, and give the reader a better insight into 
the ancient and peculiar characteristics of this people than can be gathered from any 
mere history.”—Bunker Hill Aurora 

“ Some of them are exceedingly beautiful, and indicate the character and habits of 
thought of the people better than anything we have seen.”-—N. O. Journal and Courier. 

“The author enters into the legendary life of her own country, and transfuses them 
into a language that she has mastered so as to write it with uncommon purity and 
correctness.” —Independent, 

“This work claims more attention than is ordinarily given to books of its class. 
Such is the fluency and correctness—nay, even the nicety and felicity of style—with 
which Madame Pulszky writes the English language, that merely in this respect the 
tales here collected form a curious study "—London Examiner 

“Freshness of subject is invaluable in Jiterature—Hungary is still fresh ground, It 
has been trodden, but it is not yet a common highway. ‘The tales and legends are very 
various. from the mere traditional anecdote to the regular legend. and they have the 
sort of interest which all national traditions excite.”— London Leader. 

“ Madam Pulszky has a special budget of her own. The legend of ‘The Castle of 
Zipsen’ is told with racy humor. Whimsically absurd are the matrimonial difficulties 
of Pan and Panna Twardowsky, as here related; while the fate of Vendelin Drugeth 
gives that fine old legend a more orthodox and edifying close than the original version 
possesses. Most interesting of all are ‘ The Hungarian Outlaws,’ ’— London Atheneum, 


W. F. P. NAPIER, C.B., COL. 43D REG., &c. 
HISTORY OF THE 


WAR IN THE PENINSULA, 
AND IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE, 
FROM THE YEAR 1807 TO 1814. 

Complete in one vol., 8vo. Price Three Dollars. 


“«‘ Napigr’s history is regarded by the critics as one of the best narratives 
that has recently been written. His style is direct, forcible, and impetuous, 
carrying the reader along often in spite of himself, through scenes of the 
most stirring interest and adventures full of excitement. Many of the most 
distinguished and remarkable men of European history figure in these pages, 
and are sketched with great distinctness of outline. Napoleon, Wellington, 
Sir John Moore, Ney, Murat, and others, are the characters of the drama 
which Napier describes.”—Evening Mirror. 

“We believe the Literature of War has not received a more valuable 
augmentation this century than Col. Napier's justly celebrated woik. Though 
a gallant combatant in the field, he is an impartial historian; he exposes the 
errors Committed on each side, refutes many tales of French atrocity and 
rapine, and does not conceal the revolting scenes of drunkenness, pillage, 
ravishment, and wanton slaughter, which tarnished the lustre of the British 
arms in those memorable campaigns. We think no civilian chronicler of the 
events of this desperate contest has been so just to the adversary of his na- 
tion as has this stern warrior.” —Tribune. 

‘“‘ NaprerR’s History, in addition to its superior literary merits and truth- 
ful fidelity, presents strong claims upon the attention of all American 
citizens ; because the author is a large-souled philanthropist, and an inflex- 
ible enemy to its ecclesiastical tyranny and secular despots ; while his pic- 
tures of Spain, and his portrait of the rulers in that degraded and wretched 
country, form a virtual sanction of our Republican institutions, far more 
powerful than any direct eulogy.”—Post. 

“THE excellency of Napier’s History results from the writer’s happy 
talent for impetuous, straight forward, soul-stirring narrative and picturing 
forth of characters. The military mancuvre, march, and fiery onset, the 
whole whirlwind vicissitudes of the desperate fight, he describes with dra- 
matic force.”—Merchants’ Magazine. 

“Tue reader of Napier’s History finds many other attractions, besides the 
narrative of battles, marches, plunder, ravages, sieges, skirmishes, and 
slaughter—for he learns the dreadful evils of a despotic government—the 
inherent corruption of the entire systern of European monarchies—the popu- 
lar wretchedness which ever accompanies the combination of a lordly, hier- 
archical tyranny with the secular authority, and the assurance that the ex- 
tinction of both are essential to the peace and welfare of mankind. All 
these lessons are derived from Napier’s History, which, in connexion with 
its literary excellence, and the accuracy of its details, render all other rece 
Gepepdetions utterly superfluous. It is a large, neat, and cheap volume.” 

. 1, Star 


EDWARD GIBBON. 
HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL 


OF 
THE ROMAN EMPIRE; 


A new edition, revised and corrected throughout. preceded by a Pref 
ace, and accompanied by Notes, critical and historical, relating prin 
cipally to the propagation of Christianity. By M. F. Guizot, Minis 
ter of Public Instruction of France. 


In two vols., 8vo. Price Five Dollars. 


JUST PUBLISHED, 
In one Volume, 12mo., cloth, Purce $1.25, 


NIGHT-SIDE OF NATURE; 


GHOSTS AND GHOST-SEERS. 
BY CATHERINE CROWE, 


AUTHOR OF “SUSAN HOPLEY,” “LILLY DAWSON,” ETC. 


OPINIONS OF THE PRESS, 


This book treats of allegorical dreams, presentiments, trances, apparitions, 
troubled spirits, haunted houses, ete., and will be read with interest by many 
because it comes from a source laying claim to considerable talent, and is 
written by one who really believes all she says, and urges her reasonings with 
a good deal of earnestness.— Albany Argus. 

It embraces a vast collection of marvellous and supernatural stories of su 
pernatural occurrences out of the ordinary course of events.—N. Y. Globe. 

Miss Crowe has proved herself a careful and most industrious compiler, 
She has gathered materials from antiquity and from modern times, and gives 
to English and American readers the ghost-stories that used to frighten the 
young ones of Greece and Rome, as well as those that accomplish a similar 
end in Germany and other countries of modern Europe.—Phila. Bulletin, 

It is written in a philosophical spirit.— Philadelphia Courier, 

This queer volume has excited considerable attention in England. It is not 
a catchpenny affair, but is an intelligent inquiry into the asserted facts respect. 
ing ghosts and apparitions, and a psychological discussion upon the reasona 
bleness of a belief in their existence.— Boston Post. 

In this remarkable work, Miss Crowe, who writes with the vigor and grace 
of a woman of strong sense and high cultivation, collects the most remarkable 
and best authenticated accounts, traditional and recorded, of preternatural vis- 
itations and appearances.— Boston Transcript. 

This is a copious chronicle of what we are compelled to believe authentic 
instances of communication between the material and spiritual world. It is 
written in a clear, vigorous, and fresh style, and keeps the reader in a con- 
stant excitement, yet without resorting to claptrap.—Day- Book. 

The book is filled with facts, which are not to be disputed except by actual 
proof. They have long been undisputed before the world. The class of facts 
are mainly of a kind thought by most. persons to be “mysterious ;” but there 
will be found much in the book calculated to throw light upon the heretofore 
mysterious phenomena.—Providence Mirror. 

This book is one which appears in a very opportune time to command at- 
tention, and should be read by all who are desirous of information in regard 
to things generally called mysterious, relating to the manifestations o the 
spirit out of man and in him.— Traveller, 

This is not only a curious but also a very able work. It is one of the 
most interesting books of the season—albeit the reader’s hair will occasional. 
ly rise on end as he turns over the pages, especially if he reads alone far into 
the night.—Zion’s Herald. 

A very appropriate work for these days of mysterious rappings, but one 
which shows that the author has given the subjects upon which she treats 
considerable study, and imparts the knowledge derived in a concise manner. 
— Boston Evening Gazette. : 

This is undoubtedly the most remarkable book of the month, and can not 
fail to interest all classes of people.— Water-Cure Journal, 

To the lovers of the strange and mysterious in nature, this volume will pos 
bess an attractive interest.—N. Y. Truth-Teller. 

The lovers of the marvellous will delight in its perusal..— Com. Advertiser 


‘ 
a 


For Schools, Academies, and Self-Instruction 


— 


THE 
AMERICAN DRAWING-BOOK. 
BY JOHN G. CHAPMAN, N. A. 


Tu1s Work will be published in Parts; in the course of which-- 
PRIMARY INSTRUCTIONS AND RUDIMENTS OF DRAWING: 

DRAWING FROM NATURE— MATERIALS AND METHODS: 
PERSPECTIVE — COMPOSITION — LANDSCAPE — FIGURES, ETC : 
DRAWING, AS APPLICABLE TO THE MECHANIC ARTS: 

PAINTING IN OIL AND WATER COLORS: 

THE PRINCIPLES OF LIGHT AND SHADE: 


EXTERNAL ANATOMY OF THE HUMAN FORM, AND COMPARATIVE 
ANATOMY: ' 


THE VARIOUS METHODS OF ETCHING, ENGRAVING, MODELLING, Ete. 


Will be severally treated, separately ; so that, as far as practicable, each 
Part will be complete in itself, and form, in the whole, “a Manual of 
Information sufficient for all the purposes of the Amateur, and Basis 
of Study for the Professional Artist, as well as a valuable Assistant 
to Teachers in Publie ind Private Schools ;” to whom it is especially 
recommended, as a work destined to produce a revolution in the sys- 
tem of popular education, by making the Arts of Design accessible 
and familiar to all, from the concise and intelligible manner in which 
the subject is treated throughout. 

The want of such a werk, has been the great cause of neglect in this 
important branch of education; and this want is at once and fully sup- 
plied by the — . : 


AMERICAN DRAWING-BOOK : 


apon which Mr. CuapMaN has been for years engaged; and it is now 
produced, without regard to expense, in all its details, and published at 
a price to place it within the means of every one. 

The Work will be published in large quarto form, put up in substan- 
tial covers, and issued as rapidly as the careful execution of the numer- 
ous engravings, and the mechanical perfection of the whole, will allow 

{= Any one Part may be had separately 


Price 50 Cents each Part. 


(e The DRAWING COPY=-BOOKS, intended as auxiliary 
to the Work, in assisting Teachers to carry out the system of instraction, 
especially in the Primary and Elementary parts, form a new and valu- 
able addition to the means of instruction. They will be sold at a cost 
little beyond that of ordinary blank-books,. 


CHAPMAN 


BEING PART III. OF THE AMERICAN DRAWING-BOOK. 


NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 


“ The nation may well be proud of this admirable work. In design and 
execution, the artist has been singularly felicitous ; and nothing can surpass 
the beauty, correctness, and finish of style, in which the publisher has pre- 
sented it to his countrymen. The book is strictly what it claims to be—a 
teacher of the art of Drawing. The method is so thorowzh, comprehensive, 
and progressive ; its rules so wise, exact, and clearly laid down ; and its classic 
illustrations are so skilfully adapted to train the eye and hand, that no prapil 
who faithfully follows its guidance, can fail to become, at least, a correct 
draughtsman. We have been especially pleased with the treatise on Perspec- 
tive, which entirely surpasses anything that we have ever met with upon 
that difficult branch of art.”—Spirit of the Age. 

“Perspective, is one of the most difficult branches of drawing, and one the 
least susceptible of verbal explanation. But so clearly are its principles devel- 
oped in the beautiful letter-press, and so exquisitely are they illustrated by the 
engravings, that the pupil’s way is opened most invitingly to a thorough knowl- 
edge of both the elements and application of Perspective.”—Home Journal. 

“It treats of Perspective with a masterly hand. The engravings are superb, 
and the typography unsurpassed by any book with which we are acquainted. 
It is an honor tu the author and publisher, and a credit to our common coun- 
try.” —Scientific American. 

“ This number is devoted to the explanation of Perspective, and treats that 
difficult subject with admirable clearness, precision, and completeness. The 

lates and letter-press of this work are executed with uncommon beauty. It 
fins received the sanction of many of our most emineni artists, and can scarcely 
be commended too highly.”—N. Y. Tribune. 

“This present number is dedicated to the subject of Perspective—com- 
mencing with the elements of Geometry—and is especially valuable to build- 
ers, carpenters, and other artisans, being accompanied with beautiful illustra- 
tive designs drawn by Chapman, and further simplified by plain and perspic- 
uous directions for the guidance of the student. Indeed, the whole work, 
from its undeviating simplicity, exhibits the hand of a master. We trust this 
highly useful and elevated branch of art will hereafter become an integral por- 
tion of public education, and as it is more easily attainable, so will it ultimately 
be considered an indispensable part of elementary instruction. Its cheapness 
is only rivalled by its excellence, and the artistic beauty of its illustrations is 
only equalled by the dignified ease and common sense exemplified in the 
written directions that accompany each lesson.—Poughkecpsie Telegraph.” 

“The subject of Perspective we should think would interest every mechanic 
in the country; indeed, after all, this is the class to be the most benefited by 
sound and thorough instruction in drawing.”’—Dispatch. 

‘Permit me here to say I regard your Drawing-Book as a treasure. I was 
a farmer-boy, and it was while daily following the plough, that I became ac- 
quainted with the first number of Chapman’s Drawing-Book. I found in it 
just what I desired—a plain, sure road to that excellence in the Art ot Arts, that 
my boyish mind had pictured as being so desirable, the first step toward which 
I had taken by making rude sketches upon my painted ploughbeam, or using 
the barn-door as my easel, while with colored rotten-stone I first took .essons 
from Nature. Iam now at college. I have a class at drawing, and find in the 
several numbers | have obtained, the true road for the teacher also.”—Eztracd 

from a letter recently received, 


REDFIELD ’S 
ab S&S BEER aDEa Ss, 


FOUR SERIES OF TWELVE BOOKS EACH, 
BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATEDs 
FROM DESIGNS BY J. G. CHAPMAN. 


First Series—Price One Cent. 
Tom Thumb’s Picture Alphabet, in Rhyme. 
Rhymes for the Nursery. é 
Pretty Rhymes about Birds and Animals, for little Boys and Girla. 
Life on the Farm, in Amusing Rhyme. 
The Story-Book for Good Little Girls. , 
The Beacon, or Warnings to Thoughtless Boys. 
The Picture Book, with Stories in Easy Words, for Little Readers. 
The Little Sketch-Book, or Useful Objects Illustrated. 
. History of Domestic Animals. 
. The Museum of Birds. 
. The Little Keepsake, a Poetic Gift for Children. 
. The Book of the Sea, for the Instruction of Little Sailors. 


Second Series—Price Two Cents. 
The ABC in Verse, for Young Learners. 
. Figures in Verse, and Simple Rhymes, for Little Learners. 
Riddles for the Nursery. 
The Child’s Story-Book. 
. The Christmas Dream of Little Charles. 
The Basket of Strawberries. 
Story for the Fourth of July, an Epitome of American History 
The Two Friends, and Kind Little James. 
The Wagon-Boy, or Trust in Providence. 
10. Paulina and Her Pets. 
11. Simple Poems for Infant Minds. 
12, Littie Poems for Little Children. - 


Third Series—Price Four Cents. 
. The Alphabet in Rhyme. 
The Multiplication Table in Rhyme, for Young Arithmeticians, 
he Practical Joke, or the Christmas Story of Uncle Ned. 
Little George, or Temptation Resisted. 
The Young Arithmetician, or the Reward of Perseverance. 
The Traveller’s Story, or the Village Bar-Room. 
The Sagacity and Intelligence of the Horse, 
The Young Sailor, or the Sea-Life of Tow Bowline. 
The Selfish Girl, a Tale of Truth. 
. Manual or Finger Alphabet, used by the Deaf and Dumb. 
. The Story-Book in Verse. 
. The Flower-Vase, or Pretty Poems for Good little Children. 


Fourth Series—Price Six Cents. 
The Book of Fables, in Prose and Verse 
The Little Casket, filled with Pleasant Stories. 
Home Pastimes, or Enigmas, Charades, Rebuses, Conundrums, ete. 
The Juvenile Sunday-Book, adapted to the Improvement of the Young 
William Seaton and the Butterfly, with its Interesting History. 
The Young Girl’s Book of Healthful Amusements and Exercises. 
Theodore Carleton, or Perseverance against Ill-Fortune. 
The Aviary, or Child’s Book of Birds, 
The Jungle, or Child’s Book of Wild Animals. 
Sagacity and Fidelity of the Dog, Mlustrated by Interesting Anecdotes, 
. Coverings for the Head and Feet, in all Ages and Countries. 
. Romance of Indian History, or Incidents in the Early Settlements. 


eee 
DF SD IH Or 09 DO 


$2 90 32 Sp Ot $0 29 F 


— es be 
DHS owes wp 


PP Secor ewyr 


IN PRESS, 


PHILOSOPHERS AND ACTRESSES, 
ARSENE HOUSSAYE. _ 
With Beantifully-engraved Portraits of Voltaire and Made. de Parabera, 


CONTENTS. 


THE HOUSE OF SCARRON. ABELARD AND HELOISE. 
VOLTAIRE. THE DEATH OF ANDRE CHENIER, 
VOLTAIRE AND MLLE. DE LIVRY. THE MARQUIS DE ST. AULAIRE. 
ASPASIA (THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO).|| COLLE. . 
MADEMOISELLE GAUSSIN. THE DAUGHTER OF SEDAINE. 
CALLOT. LA TOUR, PRUDHON. 

RAOUL AND GABRIELLE. BLANGINI 

MADEMOISELLE DE MARIVAUX. AN UNKNOWN SCULPTOR. 

THE MARCHIONESS’ CAPRICES. VANDYKE. 

THE MISTRESS OF CORNILLE SCHUT,|| SAPPHO. 

CHAMFORT. A LOST POET. 


HANDS FILLED WITH ROSES, FILLED WITH GOLD, FILLED WITH BLOOD. 
THE HUNDRED AND ONE PICTURES OF TARDIF, FRIEND OF GILLOT. 
THREE PAGES IN THE LIFE OF MADAME DE PARABERE. 

DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD UPON THE LIVING. 


“THE title of Arséne Houssaye’s volume is not to be literally understood. 
There is more in it than falls at first upon the tympanum of our intelligence. The 
scene and action of the book are by no means restricted to academic groves and 
theatrical green-rooms. Its author allows himself greater latitude. Adopting a 
trite motto, he declares the world a stage. His philosophers and actresses com- 
prise a multitude of classes and characters; he finds them everywhere. Artists 
and thinkers, women of fashion and frequenters of courts, the lover of science 
and the favored of wit and beauty—the majority of all these, according to his 
fantastical preface, are philosophers and actresses. Only on the stage and at the 
Sorbonne, he maliciously remarks, few actresses and philosophers are to be found. 

“To a good book a title is a matter of minor moment. It was doubtless, diffi- 
cult to find one exactly appropriate to a volume so desultory and varied as that 
of Houssaye. In the one selected he has studied antithetical effect, as his coun- 
trymen are prone,to do ; but we are not disposed to quarrel with his choice, which 
was perhaps as good as could be made. Philosophers certainly figure in his pages 
— often in pursuits and situations in which few would expect to find them; ac- 
tresses, too, are there—actresses as they were in France a century ago, rivalling, 
in fashion, luxury, and elegance, the highest ladies of the court, who, on their 
part, often vied with them in dissipation and extravagance. But Houssaye is 
a versatile and excursive genius, loving change of subject, scene, and century; 
and he skips gayly down the stream of time, from the days of Plato and Aspasia 
to our own, pausing here and there, as the fancy takes him, to cull a flower, point 
@ moral, or tell a tale.” —Blackwood’s Magazine. 


THE WORKS. « 


Pare OF 
EDGAR ALLAN POE: 
WITH NOTICES, OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS, 
—~ BYJ.R. LOWELL, N. P. WILLIS, AND R. W. GRISWOLD 


In two Volumes, 12mo., witha Portratt or THE AUTHOR, 


Pricr, Two Dotuars anv Firty Cents. 


NOTICES OF ‘SHE PRESS. 


“The edition is published for the benefit ot his mother-in-law, Mrs. Maria 
Slemm, for whose sake be may wish it the fullest success. It however, de- 
serves, and will undoubtedly obtain, a large circulation from the desire so many 
will feel to lay by a memorial of this singularly-gitted writer and unfortunate 
man.”—Philadelphit. North American. 


“Poe's writings are distinguished for vigorous and minute analysis, and 
the skill with which he has employed the strange fascination of mystery and 
terror. There is an air of reality in all his narrations—a dwelling upon partic- 
ulars, and a faculty of interesting you in them such as is possessed by few 
writers except those who are giving their own individual experiences. The 
reader can scarcely divest his mind, even in reading the most fanciful of his 
stories, that the events of it have not actually occurred, and the characters had 
areal existence.”—Philadelphia Ledger. 


“We need not say that these voinmes will be found rich in intellectual 
excitements, and abounding in remarkabie specimens of vigorous, beautiful, 
and highly suggestive composition ; they are all that remains to us of a man 
whose uncommon genius it would be folly to deny.”—N. Y. Tribune. 

“Mr. Poe’s intellectual character—his genius—is stamped upon all his produs- 
tions, and we shall place these his works in the library among those books not 
to be parted with.”—N. Y. Commercial Advertiser, 

«“ These works have a funereal cast as well in the melancholy portrait pre- 
fixed and the title, as in the three pallbearing editors who accompany them 
in public. They are the memorial of a singular man, possessed perhaps of as 
great mere literary ingenuity and mechanical dexterity of style and manage- 
ment as any the country has produced. Some of the tales in the collection 
are as complete and admirable as anything of their kind in the language.”— 
Military Review, 

“ A complete collection of the works of one of the most talented and singu- 
lar men of the day. Mr. Poe was a genius, but an erratic one—he was a comet 
or a meteor, not a star or sun. His genius was that almost contradiction of 
terms, an analytic genius. Genius is nearly universally synthetic—but Poe was 
an exception to all rules. He would build up a poem as a bricklayer builds a 
wall; or rather, he would begin at the top and build downward to the base ; 
and yet, into the poem so manufactured, he would manage to breathe the breath 
of life. And.this fact proved that it was not all a manufacture—that the poem 
was also, to a certain degree, a growth, a real plant, taking root in the mind, 
und watered by the springs of the soul.”—Saturday Post. 

“ We have just spent some delightful ‘hours in looking over these two vol- 
umes, which contain une of the most pleasing additions to our literature with 
which we have met for a long time. They comprise the works of the late 
Edgar A. Poe—pieces which for years have been going ‘the rounds of the 

ress,’ and are now first collected when their author is beyond the reach of 

umar praise. We feel, however, that these productions will live. They 
bear tae stamp of true genius; and if their reputation begins with a ‘ fit audi- 
ence hough few,’ the circle will be constantly widening, and they will retain a 
prowdrent place in our literature.”—Rev. Dr. Kip 


REDFIELDS NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS. 


NEARLY READY. 
MEN OF THE TIME IN 1852; 


Or, Skercnes or Livine Norasres: Authors, Architects, Artists, 
Composers, Demagogues, Divines, Dramatists, Engineers, Jour- 
nalists, Monarchs, Ministers, Novelists, Philanthropists, Politi- 
cians, Poets, Preachers, Savans, Statesmen, Travellers, Voyagers, 
Warriors, etc. One vol., 12mo. 

TRENCH ON WORDS. 

On the Study of Words. By Archdeacon Trencu. One vol., 
12mo., price 75 cts. 

HALLECEK’S POETICAL WORKS. 


. s 
The Complete Poetical Works of Firz-Greene HauircKk; com. 
prising several New Poems, together with many now first col- 
lected. One vol., 12mo. 


THE HISTORY OF THE CRUSADES. 


By Josern Francois Micuaun. Translated by Robson. Three 
vols., 12mo. 


PHILOSOPHERS AND ACTRESSES. 


By Arsene Houssaye. With beautifully-engraved Portraits of 
Voltaire and Mad. Parabére. ‘T'wo vols., 12mo. 


KNIGHTS OF ENGLAND, FRANCE, AND SCOTLAND. 
By Henry Witiiam Hersert. One vol., 12mo. 


THE CHEVALIERS OF FRANCE, 


From the Crusaders to the Mareschals of Louis XIV. By Henry 
Wituiam HerBertT. One vol., 12mo. 


IN PRESS, 
HOLLAND AND FLEMISH PAINTERS. 


The History of Painters and Painting in Holland and Flanders. 
By Arsene Houssare. With a beautifully-engraved Portrait 
of Rubens, from the picture of himself. One vol., 12mo. 

THE COMEDY OF LOVE. 

By ArsENE Houssaye. One vol., 12mo. 

THE FORT Y-FIRST ARM-CHAIR. 

By Arsene Hovussarye. One vol., 12mo. 

THE HISTORY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
By ARSENE HoussaYeE. Four vols., 8vo., with Portraits. 


- 
ane 
ee 


aa 
a 


ee 


oe 


= 


~ 


cae 


as 
ee 


es 
or ee 
— . 


ee 


ae 


os 
Rie 
pons 2 


oe 
- 


a 
i 
ote 


eee 


ae 


i 


ee 
oe 


" 


- 


a 


a 
ae 


ae 


po 
- 


C 
fe 


re 
- 


ie 


‘ 
oe 
Peres 
fee 


a 


oe 


ees 
Ree 
ee 


i ee 
ce 
ees 

a 


Ee 
non oe 
or 
Sorat 
ae 
Soa 


eee 


ae 
oe: 


a 
. 


ate ke 
ees 
ee. 
e 
i 


ae 
i he 


——— ee ee eee. 


RETURN TO the circulation desk of any 
University of California Library 
or to the 
NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
Bldg. 400, Richmond Field Station 
University of California 
Richmond, CA 94804-4698 


ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 

e 2-month loans may be renewed by calling 
(510) 642-6753 

e ]-year loans may be recharged by bringing 
books to NRLF 

e Renewals and recharges may be made 4 
days prior to due date. 


DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 


FEB 06 1997 


12,000 (11/95) 


C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES 


r inna wine 


= ER re 
ene ER ES 


= cee 
Sipe a ee 
a SS 
Apr ER 
i A 
Taare ope 


actin 2 


ais 
“2 ee 


neg St 


tare, 
ye. eR 


“tes 
~~ 


“+ 


ta oe 


mo aS 


